


La Vie en Écarlate

by goingbadly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Dark Jim, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Filming, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nude Modeling, Nude Photos, Snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Moriarty is the most in demand fashion photographer of his generation. He does only fifteen shoots a year, almost exclusively with Sherlock Holmes - but the models he DOES work with get extremely famous, extremely fast. When soldier-turned-model Sebastian Moran lucks out enough to get a job with him, he can't stand the guy. But there's no denying, James Moriarty is good. Sebastian baits the hook with the only thing he knows Moriarty can't resist - a mystery. The scars covering Sebastian's body, carefully covered with makeup from the rest of the world, become the threads that bind them together. </p><p>And Sebastian is quickly pulled into a dangerous world of art, beauty, and murder...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Seb Moran runs a hand through his rumpled hair and checks himself in the passenger-side mirror. Blue eyes stare back at him, rimmed in messy eyeliner and thick mascara. He’s got something black on the tip of his nose – probably more makeup. Seb rubs it off roughly with the back of his hand, which promptly makes his nose go red. _Fuck._ Seb scowls at in the mirror and glances over at his agent. Her glossy hair is perfectly in place, of course. _Her_ nose wouldn’t _dare_ to be red.

Seb feels distinctly trashy. “He signed the contract?” he asks, to distract himself.

“Of course he did. What did you hire me for?” Tammy replies disinterestedly, tapping on her ever-present phone. “And he’s inside. And you’re late.”

“Don’t do this to me,” Seb snaps at her. She shoots him a glare. “You know what I mean,” Moran defends, “ _No conditions._ _No stipulations. I decide the set pieces, I send you finished photos –_ Moriarty’s practically an industry horror story now. He doesn’t _sign_ contracts. He doesn’t _make_ deals. What if I go in there and he doesn’t follow it?”

“Well he signed _yours,_ ” Tammy tells him, with an air of finishing the conversation. “Now get out of my car and go look pretty for someone who cares. And don’t fuck this up, Moran. He’s a legend. You want the cover of Vogue? You need what he’ll do with you.”

Seb sighs, runs a hand through his hair one last time and gets out of the car. His combat boots fall heavily to the pavement. “The goddamn _army_ was easier than this,” he grouses.

“Tell it to someone who cares,” Tammy replies crisply, sliding her sunglasses back on and throwing her phone on the passenger seat. Seb slams the door and turns towards Spider Studios. His gut does a lazy flop of nerves.

“ _Don’t fuck this up!_ ” Tammy shouts, out of the rolled-down car window.

“Yeah, yeah,” Seb tosses over his shoulder as he heads for the door. He shoves his hands in his leather jacket pockets, grimacing to himself. No fucking photographer in the _world_ was worth this.

++

Spider Studios is dead black inside, except for the set. Moriarty's set up a clean white backdrop, brilliantly lit, with a black leather couch. Cables and equipment sprawl over the floor in a complex, labyrinthine mess. The air smells like hot metal and rubber. It's packed unbelievably close, like the center of a rat's nest. Seb trips over a flood lamp trying to force his way in. He curses, stumbling forward and trying not to fall on anything important or expensive.

A short man appears from the rubble at the noise, frowning heavily. He’s in a neat suit, with sharp features and slick black hair. He's got the kind of heroin-chic look Seb always thought belonged on abuse victims, but dialed back. Self-destruction casual. And - fuck, alright, Seb'll admit, he's got the kind of eyelashes most girls have to glue on in the morning and pale skin like cream. So he’s not _awful_ looking. Technically. Despite the way he gives Seb an absolutely frozen, appraising once-over.

“Are _you_ Moran?” he asks in disbelief. Irish brogue, a little bit clipped, and deeper than Seb’s expecting. The camera slung off his shoulder gives him away.

 _Moriarty._ Industry legend, photography wizard, utter recluse. He does maybe fifteen shoots a year, and nearly all of them are with Sherlock Holmes. Tammy must have licked some serious boots to get him for Sebastian’s new perfume ad.

_Too bad I feel like strangling him already._

Moriarty gives Seb a second glance that makes Seb feel like he should have a cold shower. Then he sniffs, disapproving. A twist of irritation spikes in Seb’s gut, and he bites down hard on the side of his tongue. _Right, then. Prick. You don’t want to play buddies?_ Sebastian adopts the wincing, stumbling tones of a hangover, just to watch Moriarty’s face screw up in disgust.

“Seb,” he says. “I like the set, man. We’re doing the perfume add, yeah? _Modern Man?_ ” Seb strips the two thousand dollar Armani jacket he’s wearing and tosses it over a lighting fixture; casting the set in odd, angular shadows. Moriarty’s scowl deepens to almost comical proportions, twisting his face all the way to one side. Seb knows he _shouldn’t_ get perverse pleasure from ticking off the fashion industry poofs, but… what the hell. He does.

“Yes,” Moriarty finally forces out, yanking the jacket violently from his light and throwing it on the ground, “We are. Go… just go over there. Cosmetics chair. _Please_ don’t tell me I’m doing your hair and makeup. _Please._ ”

He rolls his eyes at Sebastian and turns away, holding up his camera to the set to check angles. _Okay,_ Seb thinks, _definitely picky. Definitely a shithead._

“Don't worry about my hair and makeup. This'll look fine on camera.” Sebastian grins and pulls off his shirt. He throws it to the ground over his jacket and runs a practiced hand through his hair; rumpling it up like he’s just been tumbled over the couch.

Moriarty turns, and blinks. He doesn’t quite _stare_ , but Seb grins wider all the same. He knows what he looks like, after all; Moriarty’s damn right to be impressed. Six-foot-nine, blonde hair, blue eyes, less than ten percent body fat – yeah, the army made him hard, but the cut abs and razor hipbones aren’t all utility. He looks fucking flawless, thanks to a few makeup tricks that leave the inside of his shirt coated in flesh-tone makeup. Moriarty’s eyes slide down Sebastian and a startlingly pink tongue licks out over his chapped lips. His bone-thin hands play on the camera, tapping with excess energy.

“How do you want me?” Sebastian asks, deliberately giving Moriarty some first-class bedroom eyes.

Moriarty crosses his arms, refusing to be impressed. “You’re a little bit _unprofessional,_ you know. You _could_ look a little less like a back-alley twink if you were touched up by someone who knew what they were _doing._ ”

 _You wanna play rough, little man?_ Sebastian takes three short steps and uses his height to loom over the short, famous, and obviously _irritable_ photographer. “Tell me I look bad,” he dares, staring Moriarty down.

Moriarty’s chin raises. His shoulders draw back; arching his spine and making him stand taller. “You look like you just finished fucking a prostitute,” he snarls into Sebastian’s face.

Sebastian bares his teeth. “And _that_ sells cologne to men who aren't getting any.”

Moriarty doesn’t argue. Much as he looks like he wants to. His eyes are narrow, glittering slits. “Get on the couch,” he hisses, low and dangerous. He sounds like some of the men Seb used to know in the forces; the ones who went off alone on patrol and came back either in a body bag or covered in blood without a scratch. Seb licks his lips. _Okay. Unexpected._

There’s a beat where they just stand there, way too close for comfort, staring at each other outside the bright lights of the studio. Then Seb shrugs insouciantly. “Have it your way.”

He ambles over to the couch and sprawls out there in jeans and big black stomping boots, and nothing else. The heat of the studio lights warms his skin, sets his nerves tingling. Yeah, okay, modeling’s not the military. It’s not half as fun, and it’s not what Seb was built for. But he’s still damn fucking good at his job.

He stretches out, pulling the lean muscles of his torso tense. It sets them off in contrast, cuts all the angles of his body in hard lines of shadow. Seb tries to school his face into the usual lines he gives the camera – thinking about women he’d like to fuck gives his face a cast that _Style_ had called _'predatory_ ,' and _Men’s Health_ deemed ' _powerful.'_

Moriarty still looks unimpressed. He raises the camera and snaps off a few shots – too quick to be anything but throw-aways. Sebastian feels the same hot prick of irritation from earlier. _Who does this guy think he is?_

“Leg up,” Moriarty commands. “Foot flat on the couch.”

Seb begrudgingly follows his command – tilting his chin up to stare down the camera.

“No,” Moriarty decides immediately, fingers tapping, “I don’t like it. Leg back down. Elbow on the back of the couch, head in your hand.”

Seb barks out a harsh laugh in disbelief. That was the look that had _GQ_ knocking down his door for the cover. There’s nothing wrong with it. Fuck Moriarty. His lights are too hot, and he obviously doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

“You don’t _like_ it. Sure you know what you’re doing?” Still smiling, Seb rests his head on his hand, carding his fingers through his hair. He’s half tempted to ruin the shoot at this point, just to fuck with Moriarty. God knows the guy could use a blow to his ego. _Photographers. Always think they know your job better than you do…_

All of a sudden – way too quick for anything Seb’s seen a civilian do – Moriarty is in front of him. Seb can practically feel him vibrate with irritation. His brows are knitted down low over those unbelievably big eyes, lashes brushing against his cheeks. His hand leaps out and ice-cold fingers wrap around Sebastian’s wrist.

Sebastian jerks back, but Moriarty’s got a grip like a snake bite. Seb might as well be pulling against steel restraints.

“Don't _fucking_ question me,” Moriarty growls, giving Seb’s wrist a jerk for emphasis. His voice is a deep roll like a rumble of thunder. Seb’s stomach takes an abrupt nose-dive towards his groin, leaving him feeling hollow and hot in a way that’s got nothing to do with the lighting. Seb takes a short, sharp breath inwards. As fast as he’d grabbed him, Moriarty releases Seb’s arm, raises the camera, and takes a shot.

“Now stay juuuuust like _that_.”

Seb doesn’t quite have the balls to move. Moriarty leans over him, crowding into his personal space, leaving Seb flat on his back on the couch. Seb barely hears the click of the camera shutter. He feels like he’s been slapped in the face.

Moriarty’s got his tongue caught between his teeth, pearly white canines biting down into the pink flesh. Seb stares upwards into the reflective black glass of the camera lens, imagining Moriarty’s eyes penetrating through it straight down to Seb’s bare bones.

His breathing comes short and quick over his parted lips. _Where have I felt this way before?_

It’s like seeing the trash in Afghanistan where insurgents used to hide bombs. It’s like the plume of a gunshot, going up from the dirt at his feet. Seb’s skin is itching all over, his muscles tense and screaming at him to move. Moriarty’s got one knee on the couch, digging into Seb’s side as the camera captures him from above, and fight-or-flight is pounding so hard through Seb’s veins he thinks his head is going to break.

_Seriously? From a **photographer?**_

But Seb can’t shake it off. That thing in his lizard brain that’s watching Moriarty’s scowl and screaming, _danger;_ it’s not going anywhere anytime soon _._

“You’re done,” Moriarty says abruptly. As he gets off the couch he knees Seb in the ribs, just a bit too forcefully to be completely accidental. Sebastian grunts. Moriarty, ignoring it, hops from the couch and stalks off the set; already buried in his camera screen. His shoulders are bony, drawn together up to his ears as he turns his back on Sebastian.

_What the fuck was that?_

Seb sits up slow and careful, watching Moriarty with the wary eyes he usually reserves for jungle cats.

“You’re Moriarty, then.”

“Yes,” Moriarty tells him distractedly, still going through the shots.

“I saw what you did for Sherlock in _Vogue_ ,” Seb tries, as a method of getting Moriarty to open up. Half the guys in the industry are only in it for the compliments. “I liked it.”

“Yes, well…” Moriarty looks up. His lip curls in a sneer as he gives Sebastian another once-over. “Sherlock is a _professional._ ” Seb opens his mouth to say something back that will probably cost him his modelling career – not that Seb gives a fuck about that – and Moriarty rolls his eyes. “I’ll send the proofs to your agency. Don’t call before I do. In fact, don’t call after, unless there’s a pretty big problem.” He tugs a business card out and throws it to the ground at Seb’s feet. “You know where the door is.”

Just like that - like Seb’s a whore who’s been paid - Moriarty slings the camera strap over one bony shoulder and sweeps out of the room. Sebastian stares after his retreating back, eyes narrow with irritation.

_What a prick._

++

“Ask him for the GQ shoot.”

“What? Are you insane? Tammy, I couldn’t fucking _stand_ the guy.”

“Sebastian Moran. Have you _seen_ these proofs?”

Seb sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. His email’s up on the computer in front of him, and yes, he’s looking at the pictures from Moriarty’s shoot. And yes, they’re fucking brilliant. They’re the best photos of him anyone’s ever shot. But still –

“I look like a rent boy.”

“You look like a _marketable_ rent boy. Which is more than I can say for the series John Watson did with you. What was he thinking? Terrorist-chic? _Moran._ I am your manager. And I am saying, I don’t care if you have to suck him off, _get him for GQ._ Do you hear me?”

No use telling Tammy Blackwood that the photographer’s a recluse. Or that he almost never sees models. Or that he certainly won’t do something as mainstream and boring as a spread for GQ. Seb’s still not quite sure if he hired Tammy _because of_ or _in spite of_ the fact that she’s goddamn impossible to argue with when she makes up her mind, but it’s in full effect now.

“I’ll _try_ ,” Seb grumbles, and hangs up on her diatribe about doing better than _trying_. Fucking Yoda, that girl.

But she’s also _right._

The first shot’s good, but not perfect; Seb with one hand in his hair, leaning on the back of the couch, breathlessly grinning on the end of his laugh. There’s a teasing edge to his smile that Seb doesn’t quite remember wearing. The shadows and the framing set him up less dramatically then the other shots. He looks like he’s trying to persuade someone to do something that he knows is a bad idea, but will probably be fun anyways. There’s just the right amount of mischief; Jim has caught him in the perfect moment, candid and honest without looking graceless. Any other shoot, and this would be the one Tammy was crowing about. But it’s _not_ any other shoot. This is James Moriarty, and there’s a _reason_ he can afford to only shoot fifteen sets a year.

The next photo is immediately after Moriarty grabbed him, not that Moriarty’s dumb enough to catch himself in the frame. Seb’s expression is a hundred and ten percent sex: but it’s not _his_ kind of sex. Seb doesn’t even look like the alpha-male, dominant, competent ex-soldier he’s been in every other photo taken of him. His eyes are blown with adrenaline, just slightly wide. His lips are parted. There’s a glistening drop of saliva on his bottom one, picked out by the light. The shadows of the lighting give him eyelashes he’s never had. He’s staring up at the camera like he’s chained to a bed, like he’s not sure whether to be hard or terrified.

Okay. It’s a little humiliating. If that isn’t twink-fuck-me eyes, Seb doesn’t know what is.

But the next one – that’s the money shot. Flat on his back, skin nearly white against the black leather of the couch, with his eyes dark and his head tossed back to meet the camera lens – okay. Alright. _Fine._ Seb scrubs his hands through his hair and sighs. **_Fuck_** _me. This means going on my knees to the psycho twerp._

But he picks up the phone anyways. _Glutton for punishment._

Moriarty picks up on the second ring. “ _Hello-o?._ ”

“Moriarty?” Sebastian says tentatively, cursing himself as soon as he does. It’s a cell number, and there’s no mistaking that lilt. Of _course_ it’s Moriarty. Fuck.

“Sebaaaaaastian,” Moriarty drawls, “What do you want?”

Sebastian dumps his forehead in his hand and throws his dignity to the wind. “I'm doing a _GQ_ spread next week. I was hoping I could ask for you.”

“Mmm,” Moriarty hums through the phone, half distorted with static. _Bad signal?_ “You can try. I’ll be busy. I _do_ only work for professionals, unfortunately…”

Ah, there’s the dickbag Seb knows and already hates. “I’m looking at the proofs now,” he says coolly, “And if you think these aren’t some of the best shots of your career, I’m going blind.”

“Just because you’re _pretty,_ ” Moriarty drawls, “Doesn’t mean you can have anything you ask for. I have lots of models asking. Some have been asking for years. Why should I bump someone who can’t be bothered to do their own makeup to the top of the list?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Seb scowls at the phone, swinging himself idly back and forth in his office chair, “I don't particularly like you either. But I am _professional._ Is this really about the makeup?” Seb swivels all the way around, and scowls at the calendar on the wall. Sherlock Holmes smolders back at him – _Vogue,_ July. _Pompous git. Can see why he likes Moriarty so much._ Seb shakes his head, refocusing on what he’s actually arguing about. “I _did_ my hair and makeup before I came. You didn't see the scars, did you?”

There’s a long silence: so long that Seb starts to think the call’s been dropped and starts to hold the phone away from his ear to check.

“…What scars?” Moriarty asks, finally, with the begrudging air of someone who doesn’t want to be curious.

Sebastian grins. _Gotcha._ “Industry secret.” He turns back to his desk. On a hunch, he turns his computer on and clicks through to My Documents. “Didn’t you read the contract you signed? Everyone who finds out is obliged to keep them out of the press and my photos.”

Moriarty hums again, but it’s speculative this time. “Well. There may actually be something _interesting_ about you, surprise surprise.” Sebastian hears a weird popping sound over the line, as if Moriarty’s cracking his spine. “Extensive?”

“I’ll send you a picture if you do GQ with me.”

“Send me a picture and we’ll _think_ about GQ, darling, I don’t do _ultimatums._ ”

“Fine.” Sebastian clicks on the icon for his email. He types Moriarty’s business address one handed and attaches one of the few undoctored body shots he’s got of him. It’s shirtless, head cropped out of the frame, without the thick layer of greasepaint that usually covers Seb’s chest. The shrapnel scars are old enough that they’re flush with his skin, but they’re still clearly different from the rest. The twisted, broken tissue traces him shoulder to hip in jagged lines like lightning. It takes hours of makeup to cover them; more for the ones on his arms. Those ones are thin lacerations, the remnants of mujahedeen hospitality. “Sent to your gmail.”

Another pause, as Moriarty receives the email. Then he says, “ _Oh,"_ just the single syllable, breathless and so quiet Sebastian almost misses it.

“Do the GQ shoot for me,” Sebastian tells him, “And I’ll give you exclusive right to photograph the scars.”

“Other models have scars…” Moriarty breathes, but Seb can hear the fascination in his voice.

“They cover my face.”

Another long silence, then, “Yes.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes.” Moriarty’s grinning; Sebastian can hear it in his voice, almost a _sharp_ quality. For the second time, a thin ridge of fear runs down Seb’s spine. “Oh, _yes._ I’ll do GQ for _that._ ”

++

“You got him.”

“I said that, didn’t I?”

“You got _James Moriarty_ to agree to shoot you again, _next week,_ for _GQ._ ”

“That’s what you told me to do, innit?”

“I was fucking with you! Two spreads in a month? With the same model? He’s _never –_ Jesus, Sebastian, whatever you’re doing, bottle it, I need it for my other clients – “

“He’s just a photographer, Tammy. Don’t burst a fucking ovary.”

“He’s a _God,_ Seb. He’s a _King._ Fuck, I’m over the moon. I gotta call marketing. Don’t do something dumb like show up high, alright?”

“ _Tammy_ – ”

“No. Seb? _No._ Don’t you ruin this for me. This is the best publicity the agency’s ever got, and I’m not going to lose it just because he chose a stretcher case like you. You are his _bitch,_ you hear me? Fuck, two spreads in a month. I’m calling Gabe. Fuck, I’m calling Tyra-fucking-Banks. You’re my _boy,_ Seb!” In her excitement, Tammy hangs up. Sebastian takes the phone down from his ear and winces.

He’s got the distinct feeling he just sold his soul.

++

The _GQ_ shoot is busy. Of course it is. It’s _GQ._ They spend a while trying to harass Seb into a makeup chair, until he picks one of the interns up off the ground and calmly explains to him – _calmly,_ seriously, Seb doesn’t even raise his voice – that the makeup is _already done._ The intern’s Converse are kicking about a foot off the ground. He nods enthusiastically. Seb sets him on the ground, pats his head, and tells him kindly that if anyone else so much as suggests hair spray, Sebastian is going to use them as a footstool.

The intern agrees very firmly with everything Sebastian says.

After that, they leave him alone.

As a result, when Moriarty strolls in, Seb is sitting in an out of the way corner wondering if there’s any chance he can sneak out for a smoke before things get started. As a result of _this,_ Moriarty doesn’t spot him at first. He’s quick, though. Checks his corners. Seb can appreciate that in a man. Moriarty’s dark eyes find Seb unerringly in the shadows and his chin jerks downwards – not quite a nod. Seb nods back.

There’s a dim hush in the room – everyone’s terrified that Moriarty’ll catch them out doing something they’re not supposed to be doing. Well, and they should be. It’s the axe to them if he so much as frowns in their direction. Fashion lives and breathes reputation.

Seb can’t wait to piss him off.

Tammy appears at Sebastian’s elbow, quivering with excitement. “That’s him, isn’t it? Oh, god. Ask for the other proofs from the set. Ask him to sign with our agency, Spider Studios doesn’t have to be independent, Seb – “

“Shut up, Tammy. He’s not my fuckin’ _pal._ ” Seb needs a cigarette ten times more now than he did three seconds ago. To make things worse, he can’t touch his face or his hair and he’s got an itch like the devil’s herpes on the side of his nose. Fuck, fuck fuck. Could life get any worse?

Of course it can. Moriarty strolls over with his hands in his pockets, camera on its strap bumping on his hip. He’s got his black hair slicked back, and he’s wearing a neat diamond tie-pin and a dove grey suit. He could be in the shoot himself, if he was a bit taller.

“ _Miiister_ Moran,” Moriarty raises his eyebrow and lets his eyes trail down Moran’s blue button down and stark white tie. “I must say, I like _office worker_ better than _rent boy._ ” He looks up at Tammy, with that dangerous glitter that pulls all the hairs on the back of Seb’s neck. “Coffee. Black. Now.”

Tammy scurries off with an unfortunately mouse-like squeak. Seb’s pretty sure she meant it to be words. Moriarty’s eyeing him again, a single sculpted eyebrow raised as he takes in the twitch of Seb’s nicotine-stained fingers.

“...Well. Not entirely clean after all. Can’t have everything… Shall we?”

Seb doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. They exchange a look – Sebastian exasperated, Moriarty amused. Then Sebastian drags himself to his feet.

“Let’s rock and roll.”

++

Sebastian rolls his shoulders. He stands in front of the camera with his legs just slightly spread, his chin lifted and his eyes narrow. He pulls his jacket shut with one hand and gives the camera the same look he’d given the intern – challenging, murderous, and _terrifying._

It’s a rule-the-world face.

Moriarty frowns at him. “No. No no that's all wrong. Do what you did last time.”

“Last time wasn’t really my _style,_ ” Seb snipes back.

Moriarty rolls his eyes. “Well that’s what _worked,_ isn’t it? So I would recommend you _get used to it._ ”

“Yeah, well, I would recommend you – “

“ _Moran._ ” Moriarty barks, in the exact tone of voice Seb’s drill sergeant used to use, the one that sent jarheads running for cover. Seb’s chin jerks up on instinct. “It’s not up for _debate._ ”

Seb takes one look at Moriarty’s venomous glare and swallows, hard. There it is again: that alarm bell screaming in the back of his head. _Danger, danger, danger._ He can almost feel the black waves of malice radiating off Moriarty. All of a sudden, it’s like the tiny photographer is ten feet tall – looming over everything else in the room, his skeletal fingers clawing through Seb’s brain.

Seb takes a breath that tastes like gunpowder.

“Loosen your tie,” Moriarty commands, with no room for disagreement, “ _Don’t_ take it off. As if _someone’s_ been dragging you around with it.”

“You really like it when I look like I’ve been begging, don’t you?” Sebastian snarks back, loosening his tie with quick short jerks. “The proofs from last time practically scream _on my knees._ That how you like it? Should I pin myself for you?” Intending to be mocking, he grabs his wrists behind his back and pulls, tossing his head back like he’s being restrained from behind. He can feel the shirt go tight over his chest, pulling open to the hollow of his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Seb sees Tammy coming back with coffee; she looks _confused._ Almost stunned.

“We're selling _sex,_ Moran,” Moriarty tells him with the patient tone of voice that parents use to explain chores to stupid children. His finger snaps away at the camera, lens clicking between them. “Business men love to have pretty boys like you around to grind under their thumbs. They'll remember this ad.”

“ _Pretty boys?_ ” Seb snarls back, his stomach hot and crawling with anger.

Moriarty’s lips curl in a smirk. “Oh, were you under the impression you were something _else_?”

“Funny, I _was_ ,” Seb growls back. It’s weird; he’s sure there were other people on this set a moment ago, but now it’s all narrowed to just him and Moriarty, facing each other over the camera. Sebastian lets his hands swing down, shoves them in his pockets, and glares at the flash.

The black shock of Moriarty’s hair bobs as he twists his neck out to the side. “Well you’re _not._ Sorry to break it to you. No, wait, _no,_ I’m not. If your agent walks on _eggshells_ to stop you believing you’re a _twink,_ it’s not my fault.”

This time Sebastian actually _does_ growl. Low in his throat, like a fucking dog on a chain. He gets a quick flash of Moriarty’s white canines in response, then the flash goes off twice in quick succession.

All of a sudden it’s too much. Seb is aware of everyone else in the packed room, the stage techs and lighting professionals all frozen as they stare at the model and photographer having a _pissing_ contest on set. The clothes they’ve put him in feel too hot, too tight, too heavy. Seb wants to surge forward, use the muscles and instincts of military training to rip Moriarty limb from limb. Frustration itches in the palms of his hands, so he curls them into fists. The makeup caked over his scars makes his skin feel grimy, and the whole room smells like sweat and hot lights.

“Are we _done_ here?” he asks, knowing he sounds petulant and not giving a fuck. Moriarty’s still grinning like he’s _won,_ the insufferable fuck.

“Now that you mention it, yes. I rather think you’ve done _enough,_ don’t you?” Moriarty lets the camera drop. Without it between them, Seb feels like he’s standing way too close.

“ _Good._ ”

He stalks off the set, heading for wardrobe. It takes an effort to ignore Jim’s giggle, but hey – what were years of concealment training for?

Tammy’s sneakers squeak on the floor as she jogs after him. “Seb – Seb – “

Seb rounds on her. “Set Moriarty up for a private photoshoot. Tell GQ it's been a regular fucking pleasure. And stay the _goddamn hell_ out of my way.”

Her mascaraed eyes go round. “A private shoot? Moriarty – he doesn’t – “

Sebastian starts stripping halfway to the closet. He tosses the shirt in Tammy’s vague direction and she scrambles to catch it. Letting a five hundred dollar shirt drag in the dirt of a photo shoot might negate any money they make from the contract. It’s the sort of thing she cares about. Seb tries not to notice how fucking _delighted_ Moriarty looks at this.

“Yeah, well, he wants this one.”

“Monday?” supplies a deep Irish lilt, just behind Tammy. She jumps nearly a clean foot in the air, and Seb has to cover his own jerk of surprise. _Jesus,_ the guy was quick. And quiet.

“Fine.”

Tammy clears her throat weakly. “Ah, Sebastian, you have the Dior –“

“ _Monday,_ ”

He spits it in Moriarty’s face like a challenge. Moriarty inclines his head, just a fraction of a hair. His eyes are so black they seem to absorb light out of the air around them, sucking everything down like twin black holes. That ringing alarm bell is starting to give Seb a headache.

“Monday,” Jim agrees, purring, like a cat licking its lips. His gaze bores into Sebastian's implacably. Sebastian takes a short breath, clamps his mouth shut tight, and nods. He slams the door as hard as he can on the way out. It doesn't quite manage to drown out the soft sound of Moriarty's laughter.

_Ah, fuck. What have you gotten yourself into this time, Seb?_

++

 


	2. Chapter 2

++

Moriarty’s texted directions lead Sebastian to an abandoned train yard outside of London, old shipping cars rusting away beside the broken-up tracks. Grass is growing between the railroad slates, rotting out the wooden boards from beneath. Moriarty stands in the middle of the wreckage, hands shoved in his pockets, smiling easily up at a tall man in a Belstaff coat. Seb’d know that coat and that curly hair anywhere; Sherlock Holmes, darling of the London fashion scene, with his vampire-pale skin and his too-intense eyes. Fuck. Deep breaths.

Seb parks in a gravel lot at the side of the tracks, by the old station house, and ducks beneath the steering wheel – pretending to fix his boots. Of course Moriarty brought another model, and of _course_ it had to be Sherlock. _Right, Moran. It’s done now. You said you’d do the shoot. Don’t punch anyone, don’t start shit, just get it over with._

Seb tugs the collar of his sweatshirt up higher over his throat, and checks the makeup on his face in the mirror. He’s got make-up wipes in his pocket for when they get started. Not that he’s insecure about his scars, or anything, just – _Sherlock Holmes, Christ._ If there’s anyone as famous in the London fashion scene as James Moriarty, it’s Sherlock Holmes. He’d made a photographer _cry_ at Paris fashion week last year. Channel had outright said they’d drop him if they didn’t need him so much.

_A-grade pretty boy material, and I’m – what? A scarred up old soldier trying to pass?_

_Fuck ‘em,_ Seb thinks to himself furiously, _fuck ‘em if they think they’re better than me._ He knees the door of his beaten up sedan open, steps out, and shoves it closed with his hip. The sound of the door slamming makes both men look up from the train tracks; Sherlock with his eyes narrowed and suspicious, Moriarty smiling mockingly. He looks like he’s enjoying Sebastian’s discomfort. They’re standing beside a plush white carpet, laid out in contrast to the rust and decay of the trains. Sebastian makes his way over with long, confident strides, kicking up gravel in clouds around his boots. He drops half into parade rest in front of them on instinct. Moriarty’s eyes on Sebastian have almost a palpable weight.

“Finally here,” Sherlock says, with a tone of bored distaste, “Well, let’s get on with it, then.” He shrugs off the famous Belstaff and throws it over the railing of an abandoned caboose.

_What do you know, they’re both pricks._

Seb extends his hand anyways. “Sherlock Holmes, right? I saw the _Vogue_. Impressive.”

Sherlock stares at Sebastian’s hand like it’s covered in dog shit. He’s wearing tight leather pants and a mesh shirt that does nothing to disguise his trade-mark whip-thin body. His kohl-rimmed eyes are as startlingly bright and intense as they look in photographs; his hair perfect and shining in lush, crisp curls.

Okay, Seb hates him a little.

“Have we met?” Sherlock asks, eyes flicking up to Seb with disdain.

“Play _nice,_ Sherly,” Moriarty chides, sing-song. Sherlock doesn’t look particularly pissed at being called Sherly – if it were Seb, he’d deck Moriarty. “You are _working_ with him, after all.”

Sherlock sniffs, his eyes raking down Seb so closely Seb feels naked. It’s a look that wouldn’t be out of place on Moriarty’s face. “Please, a broken-down, repressed soldier with an inferiority complex? Hardly worth calling me out for, I think.”

Seb drops his hand back to his side and balls it into a fist. His teeth grind. He feels his temper build like a cough in his throat and hastily beats it down. “Right. Let’s get this over with, then.” Seb reaches for the zip of his sweatshirt.

“Ah-ah,” Moriarty chides lightly, not taking his hands out of his pockets, “Make-up first, darling.”

Seb’s hackles rise. He bristles at Moriarty, but pulls out a handful of makeup wipes anyways. The thin layer of concealer on his face scrubs off easily enough; revealing the three parallel scars that rake down, forehead to lip, on the left side of his nose. They’re bisected by the scar that runs horizontal over his cheekbones, ear to ear. Nearly lost the nose entirely, that time.

Moriarty’s eyes fly wide and Sebastian feels a vicious satisfaction at surprising him _._ Even Sherlock’s perfect eyebrows arch; but his expression is closer to revulsion. Moriarty looks _delighted._ He licks his lips in a way Seb is starting to be familiar with. It’s predatory; and if Seb is completely honest, a little bit _chilling_ for a reason he can’t quite but his finger on.

“Oh,” Moriarty says, “Would you look at _that._ ”

Sherlock makes a face. “If I wanted to be shot with _cripples_ , Jim, I would have said so.”

“Hush,” Moriarty commands softly. He steps forward, and his skeletal fingers reach up for Sebastian’s face. “May I?”

The long dry grass peeping up through the train tracks waves in the wind. It smells of dust and metal and hay, like the farms outside Beirut.

“Yes,” Sebastian says, before he’s quite sure what he’s agreeing to. “Wait.” He pulls his sweatshirt off. The scars on his chest are thicker, longer, rippling over the muscles on his torso. Moriarty’s fingers tremble. “Yes,” Sebastian says again.

A cold finger presses into the wound over his heart, the comet-trail of a grazing bullet. Once again the world has narrowed, leaving Moriarty and Sebastian alone in the long grass. Seb’s only vaguely aware of Sherlock’s disgusted look. His mouth feels dry, skin tight. Without sensation in the scar tissue, he can barely feel the trace of Moriarty’s fingers as they trail down his torso. Like Moriarty is finger painting his scars.

The silence draws long and fragile. A few clouds drift through the sky, clouding out the sun. The wind teases at his hair. Seb takes a shallow breath that doesn’t seem to bring in any oxygen with it. _Fuck. What **is** it with this guy?_

“Satisfied?” he rasps at last, when Moriarty doesn’t seem to be making any move to back off.

“ _Hardly,_ ” Sherlock purrs. “And Jim said you were a _model?_ ”

“It's an industry secret. I wear the makeup almost constantly.”

“I can see _why_ ,” Sherlock says dryly.

Moriarty’s lips twitch, trying not to smile. “Now, now…” he chides.

“How do you want me?” Seb growls roughly, trying not to think about the obvious disgust on Sherlock’s face.

“On the rug,” Moriarty tells him. “Lie down on your back.”

“...Ah.” Sherlock’s eyes spark with interest. “ _Well._ ”

Seb scowls. “Am I behind here? I don’t – “

“No, that’s too much to be expected.” Sherlock gestures at the mat. “Lie down. At least one of us isn’t a complete idiot.”

Seb bristles at him, but he still lies down. They both loom above him: Sherlock looking like an extra from a Matrix movie, Moriarty tightly buttoned-down in his trim suit. Seb licks his lips and tries not to swallow too obviously. Or think about autopsies. It’s just so horribly _vulnerable,_ the heat of the sun on his skin, the way Moriarty’s eyes fixate on the hollow of his throat. Seb’s pulse feels over-loud, the carpet surreally soft against his too-sensitive skin.

Moriarty pops the lens cap off his camera; holds it up to his eye.

“What – “ Sebastian starts. That’s as far as he gets before Sherlock drops to the carpet beside him and shoves a knee between his legs. Seb hisses, drawing in breath quickly. All of a sudden he’s unsure where to put his hands. Sherlock braces himself on hands and knees, lean torso pressed flush against Sebastian’s thigh and stomach. This close Seb can see the shadows under his cheekbones like they’re drawn on his face, too dark and clear to be entirely human.

“Is he always like this?” Sherlock asks irritably. When Moriarty doesn’t bother responding, he bends his head, breath playing over the scars on Seb’s throat. Seb inhales. His chest rises up, brushing against Sherlock’s lips. He wants to say _quit it_. He wants to shove Sherlock off and kick him in the gut, spit in Moriarty’s face, leave them both to go to hell –

“Just like that,” Moriarty says approvingly. “Complain to me later, Moran, when it won’t ruin the shots.” Seb’s eyes fly open and find him; setting the camera to his eye so it hides his face. Seb’s stomach floods in a way it hasn’t since he shipped back to England. His shoulders go rigid on the mat. It’s not the hard muscles of Sherlock’s chest pressed tight against him; fuck, any man can be fit. It’s those _eyes,_ Moriarty’s, dark and cold and judging. Seb feels horribly vulnerable; over-exposed. He puts his hands up over his head and buries them in the soft fabric of the carpet, staring into the unblinking eye of the camera. Moriarty hums softly, finger white on the camera button.

“Good.”

Sherlock’s hair brushes against Sebastian’s skin as he makes his way downwards. Seb feels his hips tilt, canting into the ground so his back curves off the rug completely. Moriarty’s smiling, his lips parted over sharp white teeth. Seb feels dizzy. He _knows_ – well, he’s perfectly fucking aware that this isn’t the place to get a hard on, but he’s feeling hot again. As if Moriarty’s camera is a solar lamp, burning his skin. And it’s not exactly a _bad_ feeling, although Seb’d shoot himself in the face before telling Moriarty that.

Sherlock slides back up Sebastian’s body, the mesh fabric of his shirt scraping against Seb’s stomach. He presses Seb into the mat, reaching up to grab his wrists. His fingers encircle them tightly, ice cold and digging into the bones. It’s perfect contrast to the heat building on Sebastian’s skin. _Alright, no, fuck, rein it back in, **right the fuck now**_ – Seb lets himself be pushed down into the rug, and tries desperately not to feel anything. Especially not the weight of Moriarty’s judging eyes.

_Shit shit shit –_

Seb opens his mouth to ask for a quick break. Or to plead for help. He’s not sure which. It’s that _camera._ That fucking camera. Moriarty’s all-seeing-eye, watching him, that’s the fucking _problem_.

“No.” Moriarty says suddenly. The shock of his voice is like ice-water down Sebastian’s spine. He looks up and sees Moriarty lowering the camera, frowning. “Sherlock. _Wrong._ Move – move –“

Sherlock pulls back, giving Seb a wink that he’s reasonably sure means absolutely _nothing_ good for him. Moriarty sets his camera down carefully on the mat, hard black angles sinking into the plush fuzz.

“Watch,” Moriarty says. Sherlock kneels back and Sebastian takes a much needed gasp of air. He can feel the sweat sticking to his skin where Sherlock had been. He shuts his eyes for a second to ground himself, running quickly through the breathing exercises he learned in basic. It puts his throttle back down to zero, for a moment.

A moment which Moriarty uses to take Sherlock’s place. Sebastian jerks down backwards into the mat, as if he can run away through solid ground. There’s a spark of amusement in Moriarty’s eyes.

“It's got to be subtle,” Moriarty says to Sherlock, without taking his eyes from Sebastian’s. He smells good: like spice and cologne and crisp cotton. Close up Seb can see flakes of dead skin where his lips are chapped, a red mark the camera’s left just below his arched eyebrow. “We’re not shooting _porn_ here, darling. More…” He touches Seb.

He _touches_ Seb.

His palm flattens, hot and dry, over the main mass of shrapnel scars on Sebastian’s chest. Seb’s heart takes it as a cue to stop beating. A tremble runs over his skin, like earthquake tremors out from Moriarty’s fingers. The rush of grass in the wind grows louder and louder in his ears. Moriarty is smiling, malicious and amused. His fingers trail upwards, following a line of scar-tissue up to Sebastian’s collar. He presses a curved knuckle under Seb’s chin.

Seb tilts his head back, baring his throat. “See?” Moriarty asks Sherlock lightly. Seb swallows, hard. His heart is pounding so fast he’s pretty sure it’s about to leap straight out through his ribcage, spattering Moriarty’s white carpet with blood.

“Oh, I don’t know about the _porn_ thing,” Sherlock purrs. “You could sell that to Playgirl if he was naked.”

“That's why it’s high fashion and not porn, dear. The clothes.”

If Moriarty doesn’t get off Seb right now – well, that doesn’t bear thinking about. “I think he gets it.” Seb growls roughly.

Moriarty laughs. His fingers press against Seb’s chin again, pushing his head just that bit further back, until his body is drawn out and strained like an elastic band ready to snap.

“Good,” Moriarty says again.

Sherlock takes Moriarty’s position and now it’s even worse; now Seb feels like the body pressed against him is still Moriarty. Sherlock’s fingers push at his chin. The dome of his skull rolls backwards, drawing out the tension in his pose. Seb feels wound tight in Moriarty’s grasp; like the photographer has him bound to the floor, completely under control.

“Like that,” Moriarty repeats, from a very great distance, camera clicking off photos. The sound of his voice makes Seb flinch. He opens his eyes and stares at the camera, seeing himself in the lens. His blue eyes are dimly visible through fringe of his eyelashes, shadowed in the dark reflection. Sherlock’s head is bowed, staring at Seb’s throat like he’s about to rip it out.

The camera snaps.

“Sherlock,” Moriarty says, oddly strangled, “Guide one of his legs up…”

A long hand grabs the back of Sebastian’s knee and jams it up towards his chest. “Oi!” Seb startles halfway up off his back, into Sherlock. Sherlock’s between his legs, now. They could be fucking _dry-humping._ And sure, sex sells – but there is a fucking _line._

_Alright, enough is enough, I can’t fucking do this –_

Seb’s shoulders have barely left the fuzz of the carpet when Moriarty clicks his tongue. “Don’t move, darling…” Moriarty says breathlessly, face hidden behind the camera. Like **hell** he can command Seb. Like fucking _hell_. But somehow Seb finds himself easing back to the ground anyways. Moriarty practically purrs.

“Good boy.”

Half of Seb snarls. The other half melts. Caught between the two opposing impulses, he lets Sherlock manhandle him into the position Moriarty wants. By the time Seb’s decided that no, fuck Moriarty, he’s nobody’s _boy,_ it’s already too late. And alright, Seb’d had the occasional fumbling moment in junior high, a rough handjob between soldiers on an army cot, but this, _this –_ his legs drop open wider to allow Sherlock to press close. His thoughts have a dazed, unreal feeling to them and his skin feels like hot silk everywhere Sherlock is touching him. But it’s not Sherlock; it’s the impersonal camera hanging over them. Moriarty, watching their every move, eyes dark and cold. Seb’s lips part; caught staring at the tight press of Moriarty’s lips.

“Pin his hands back over his head...” Moriarty says, and unless Seb’s hearing is just as fucked as his brain, the guy is _breathless._ Sherlock grabs Seb’s wrists and lifts them over his head, presses them into the plush rug that they're lying on.

Moriarty’s throat bobs as he swallows. The shutter clicks.

Sherlock noses his way into Sebastian’s jaw. Seb breath catches in his throat. He can see Sherlock’s eyes slide sideways, finding the camera, but his mouth moves at Sebastian’s ear.

“You are _enjoying_ this, aren’t you?” he taunts.

Moriarty is standing over them now, casting a long shadow away on the matt as he captures them from above.

“Fuck you,” Sebastian breathes, welcoming the distraction of conversation. It doesn’t seem to help. His voice comes out weak and defenseless.

 _I invaded Afghanistan,_ Seb thinks dumbly to himself, _I served in **Somalia,** for chrissakes._

That doesn’t seem to help either. Sherlock chuckles, low and rumbling. Seb can feel it in his chest. He can’t get enough air. If he doesn’t – do something soon –

Desperately, he pictures minefields. The emergency tent at base-camp. Wounded soldiers, crying children, the heat of the desert – nothing helps. If anything, thinking of violence makes it worse. He’s drowning in that camera lens, feeling the touch of Moriarty’s fingers on his chin like they’re still there. Seb wants his touch again. No, fuck that, he never wants Moriarty to touch him. Well – fuck, _fuck_ , it shouldn’t be so hot, the casual way Moriarty steamrolls right over his brain.

_I wish he would do that again. Maybe I could prove to myself it was just a one-time response –_

But almost as if he’s sensing what Seb wants and deliberately being obnoxious, Moriarty doesn’t give them any further direction. He’s silent, eyes hidden behind the ever-present camera. Sherlock’s fingers trail down Seb’s side, where there are no scars, heading towards the belt of his jeans. The fine hairs of Sebastian’s skin rise up after his touch, carving a path over Seb’s skin.

“ _Enough,_ ” Moriarty snaps. He turns sharply on his heel, away from them. “That’s fine. Sherlock, get off. I really think I would have noticed if you decided to take up _whoring_.” His shoulders hunch.

Sherlock laughs quietly as he gets off Sebastian. “Oh, I don’t know about that. There is a certain crude elegance to the work you’ve been doing with Irene.”

Moriarty shoots a scowl over his shoulder. Sherlock laughs again as he gets to his feet, at a joke Sebastian doesn’t quite understand. The famous Belstaff swings and settles around Sherlock’s shoulders in a graceful whirl. He pulls out a top-of-the-line mobile from the pocket, which he taps away at with the casual speed of a professional. Seb rubs a hand over his head before he rolls his feet, much slower than Sherlock had. He still feels a little bit dizzy. Breathless. The abrupt ending of the shoot has him stumbling and unsure. He shoots a look at Moriarty, but the back of Moriarty’s suit tells him nothing. Sherlock looks up from his mobile briefly, scanning Sebastian’s face.

Sebastian’s not entirely sure what he’s seeing, but it’s not something he exactly wants to ask. To cover his silence, Sebastian finally settles on, “What work with Irene?”

“Haven't you been to his gallery?” Sherlock’s fingers still on the mobile buttons in disbelief. Not like there’s any reason Seb _would_ go to Spider Studios’ gallery. Titillating pictures of half-naked men are his job, not his interest. Moriarty remains silent, except for the beep of his camera buttons as he goes through the shoot.

“No,” Seb replies. He should follow it up with “unfortunately” or perhaps “not yet,” but what the hell. Moriarty can deal with a little rudeness.

“Mmm. Your mistake. He only photographs fashion for the money.”

“And what do you photograph for the pleasure of it?” Seb asks Moriarty’s turned back. He doesn’t get a response.

After a short pause, as if choosing his words carefully, Sherlock says, “You have to see for yourself. It's remarkable. Ah – and there’s my ride.” A low black sedan pulls up to the lot. John Watson’s behind the wheel. Seb raises a hand in his direction, even though the guy’s a sanctimonious ass; John lifts his fingers in acknowledgement, even though he thinks Seb is a bad-tempered thug.

_Ah, life in the fashion industry._

“It was... not as horrible as I was expecting,” Sherlock says to Sebastian as John parks. He extends a hand, with a look on his face like he’s sticking his fingers in a thumbscrew.

Sebastian takes it and shakes. Sherlock shakes firm; not simpering, like most of the models. Seb tosses his head in Moriarty’s direction, and responds, “He brings out the worst in me.” It comes out a lot less humorous than he’d intended. Sherlock smiles at him narrowly, then turns and sweeps away to his car.

Leaving Sebastian alone with Moriarty.

Seb’s spine tingles, like he’s in the jungle and a twig has snapped behind him. He turns, slowly, not sure what he’s going to see. But Jim is ignoring him completely, bent over his camera supplies as he packs up.

Seb looks out to the gravel parking lot. No other cars. Back to Jim. Not a hair out of place. Crisp suit, clean shoes, probably uncomfortable for walking.

“…Where's your car?” Seb blurts out, before he can help himself.

“Mostly I cab...” Moriarty replies distractedly, fitting his camera things neatly away into an improbably small bag.

Seb licks his lips. _I could –_ His brain cuts the thought off half-way, screaming _bad idea!_ screaming, _danger!_

But what the hell, Seb always enjoyed stumbling into the thick of things. “I have a car here. You want a ride?”

Moriarty turns to slowly look up at Seb. He squints at Seb’s face, then shades his eyes with a hand. His lips still catch the sun, screwed up in confusion as he tries to see straight through Seb’s brain to his intentions. “Shoreditch is a bit out of your way, isn't it?”

“I'm offering,” Seb says, although he’s starting to regret it.

Moriarty shrugs, and goes back to packing. “Your funeral, darling. Roll up the mat, would you?”

++

When they’re on the road Moriarty snags Sebastian’s phone and programs the GPS coordinates into it. He doesn’t ask for the password. Sebastian tries to grab it back but Moriarty just holds it out of his reach and slaps Sebastian’s hand.

“No. I’m not sitting here giving you directions like a glorified map.”

“ _Take the next left onto 1 st Street,_” says the GPS. Moriarty props it up on the dash and smiles at it fondly.

“There we are.”

Then he falls silent. Sebastian risks a glance at him, taking his eyes away from the road to see Moriarty leaning forward to fiddle with the air conditioning, restless and jittery as a teenager.

Moriarty screws the air conditioning way up. “You would think all that time in Afghanistan would teach you to _use_ this,” he complains.

 _Afghanistan._ Seb goes cold in his seat. His grip tightens to white on the steering wheel. He stares hard at the road. Considering his scars, it’s not an _unreasonable_ guess on Moriarty’s part, but still…

Seb tries to play casual, although his tight little silence may have already spoiled that. “Where’d you get Afghanistan from?” He can almost _feel_ the eye-roll Moriarty directs at him.

“Shrapnel scars, burns, knife wounds… come on. You were hardly being very sneaky.”

“Got a lot of experience with scars?” Seb risks another glance. Moriarty’s smiling again, that knife-edged grin that gives Seb chills.

“Oh,” he purrs, “My fair share. Besides, you do strut around trying to pretend that you’re all _alpha-dog_. It’s really almost cute, considering you’d roll over in a second if I told you to. _Wanting_ so bad and all.”

Seb debates pulling the car over then and there. The leather of the steering wheel makes a tortured sound as he twists it. “Oh, here we go,” he sneers at Moriarty, not bothering to take his eyes off the road, “Half the photographers I work with try this shit at some point. Right before, "Would you mind getting naked for this part?"

Moriarty snorts. “I don't want you naked in my shots.”

“Neither do they.”

Seb’s surprised when Moriarty laughs, bright and sincere. It trails away to a giggle, almost girlish. “Oh, Sebastian. I won’t ask you to get naked for me, I can promise you that.”

Somehow, it doesn’t sound reassuring. Seb parks around the back of Spider Studios, and turns the car off.

“Come in,” Moriarty says. Sebastian looks at him.

“Why would I want to do that?”

Moriarty shrugs. He opens the car door, and hops neatly down to the pavement. When he reaches back to grab his camera bag, he says, “Whether or not you have a reason, you _do_ want to. It’s _photographs,_ Moran. Not prom.”

Seb snarls, but Moriarty’s slammed the door in his face. His neat, expensive shoes click over the parking lot towards the back door. Seb stares at his back; at the easy line of his shoulders. He left the carpet in the backseat, trusting Seb would come after him.

“Dammit,” Seb mutters to himself, leans back, and grabs the carpet. He slings it over his shoulder and follows Moriarty inside. _Dammit to fucking hell._

The back of Spider Studios is just as dark as the set had been, although less cluttered with electronics. It’s a twisting little warren of boxes, blow-ups, and staging lights; like the backstage of a theatre.

“Set the carpet down there,” Moriarty says without turning. He points towards a heap of rugs in the corner. Seb leans the rolled up carpet against them. The glow of Moriarty’s phone seems very bright in the darkness. “It _was_ Afghanistan, then,” he says suddenly.

“And Iraq. And Somalia. And the Sudan – “ Seb straightens and turns back to him, but Moriarty doesn’t look up. With his face lit from beneath his eyes are lost entirely in shadow, deep-set in his skull. His fingers tap at blinding speed over the keys, faster even then Sherlock. “I was special forces.”

“Psychiatric discharge?” Moriarty asks, finally glancing up. His expression is utterly blank.

“Dishonorable.”

“Ah.” Moriarty goes back to the keys for a second, then he puts his phone away. “The showroom is open. There is also a series upstairs that’s not for public display. I think you just might be able to properly appreciate it.” He gestures Seb to go on in front of him, through an unmarked door _._

When Sebastian opens it he’s almost blinded by the brilliant lights of the showroom floor. There’re a few scattered visitors around, enjoying the canvases that decorate the walls. The floor is bamboo hardwood, a soft shade of yellow, and the walls are flawlessly white. Against them, Moriarty’s work – as it usually does – looks bleak and stark. It’s full of high contrasts, like his fashion portfolio; dark, dramatic lines and bold colours.

Looking around the gallery, Seb gets the feeling that if he appreciated art he’d be deeply impressed. As it is, he’s struck with an odd sense of being inside someone else’s brain. Unlike Moriarty’s fashion photography, the blown-ups in his gallery are personal; urgent. Sebastian feels like someone is desperately trying to tell him something he can’t understand.

There’s a series of urban portraits; blurred dark crowds, out of focus against jarringly bright buildings. Shot at low angles - ominous - the cities in Moriarty’s photographs seem poised to overwhelm the people. A set of macro shots on the opposite wall show a beetle in various stages of dissection. Another photograph shows a bird, caught in someone’s fist, feathers greasy and black against calloused fingers. Sebastian can almost see the swell of its chest as its heart pounds in fear.

Moriarty steps quietly into the room behind him, and shuts the door. “Hardly the pieces Sherlock thought were remarkable,” he drawls, but when Sebastian turns Moriarty is watching him with barely concealed interest. Trying to gauge his reaction.

Seb keeps his face carefully blank. “They’re quite good,” he says, knowing the words mean nothing at all but hoping they’ll piss Moriarty off.

Moriarty’s face darkens. “Don’t _try,_ ” he snaps, “You aren’t half smart enough.” He points Seb forward with two fingers, towards the narrow wooden staircase at the end of the room. “On you go.”

Sebastian walks through the gallery, between the dissected beetle and the disturbing landscapes. They’re larger than they looked at first. In the hush of the gallery Seb’s spine draws uncomfortably tight – something about the silence and the harsh, unforgiving art.

Towards the back of the room is a series of five photographs, all featuring a woman with severe pin-curls in her dark hair. In the pictures, she’s torturing a series of young lovers. Their expressions are horribly real. Sebastian stops in front of one set in an inner-city alley. A nude young woman is bound to an iron bedframe, crisp sheets rucked up as she writhes. The camera has caught the dominatrix looking up; her deep red lips curl in a satisfied smile as she arches her eyebrow at the camera. There’s horrible intimacy in her expression; the viewer shares her amusement over the bound and screaming girl beneath her.

 _She was looking at Moriarty,_ is Sebastian’s first thought. _What had he said? What was he thinking?_

In the next photograph the dominatrix is barely visible; she’s a shadow behind the subject. A young man with blonde, messy hair, screaming into his shoulder. A tear is caught on his black eyelashes.

Moriarty’s quiet voice behind him isn’t a surprise. “Keep going. Upstairs.”

“What's upstairs?”

“Darker things.”

Sebastian turns. Moriarty has his hands tucked in his pockets again, camera bag slung over his shoulder. He’s watching Sebastian, still with that careful air of judging Seb’s reactions. Seb doesn’t doubt for an instant that he’d been amused by the screaming girl. He can imagine Moriarty goading the dominatrix on. He can imagine Moriarty, frustrated, _not like that, like this,_ the whip cracking as it slashes into naked flesh –

His thoughts are interrupted by the click of heels on the wooden stairs beside them. Seb looks up to see a woman descending; sky-high stilettos, white blouse, pencil skirt. Pin curls. The woman from the photos.

She smiles at Sebastian, her eyes sharp and interested. If she’s another dumb anorexic model, Sebastian is a rubber fucking duck. “About time you came back, Jim, dear...” she smiles, clacking forward over the hardwood to kiss Moriarty’s cheek. She has to bend down to do it. Her shoulder blades press against the back of her blouse like bird wings. When she straightens, she turns to Sebastian, eyeing him with obvious appreciation. Seb’s seen the look before. On _panthers._ “Did you bring me a new toy? You always know just how to pick. I could do _terrible_ things with this one...”

“Irene, Sebastian Moran,” Moriarty waves his hand to indicate his tedium. “You've seen him in _Cosmopolitan,_ I’m sure. Sebastian, Irene Adler.”

Irene extends her hand and Sebastian shakes obediently. She’s got a grip like a soldier, but her palms are sinfully soft. When she releases him, she turns immediately to Moriarty. “Jim, he's _darling._ I absolutely must make him beg.”

“It wouldn’t go down that way,” Sebastian interrupts. Moriarty casts an amused look at him. Irene’s eyebrows raise. Under the bright lights, her dark hair is gleaming like silk.

“Wouldn’t it?” she asks. “I don’t think we understand each other yet, Mr. Moran.” She places her palm on his chest and draws in close enough that they could be waltzing. He can smell her perfume: orchids, he thinks. Or panther claws. “I could split you into _kindling_ ,” she whispers, the softness of her voice making it sound like a promise.

 _What the fuck **is** it with me lately? Did somebody dose the water? _ Sebastian goes absolutely still to stop himself from shrinking back. He gets the feeling it would be taken as a sign of weakness. While he’s still struggling to come up with something – anything – to say, Moriarty reaches out. With two fingers, he touches Irene’s wrist – a gentle contact, like a kiss. She snatches her hand back so fast it looks like he burned her.

“So sorry to spoil your _fun,_ dear. But he’s too high-profile for you.” Moriarty gives her an absolutely frozen smile. “Friendly warning. Don’t stick your fingers where you shouldn’t, and maybe they won’t get cut off.”

Irene takes this in stride. She sniffs, and shakes her head at him. “So subtle when you want me to leave, Jim.” Before she turns and clicks off over the floor, she gives Sebastian another smile – more amused than enticing. “I can’t help but pity you. Do try to enjoy it as much as you can. Jim’s ten times what I am.”

It’s an excellent exit line, and she takes it. Sebastian stares as she retreats; only a little because her ass is fantastic.

“Put your eyes back in your head, Moran,” Moriarty says irritably behind him, “You don’t have to mentally fuck _everyone_ I introduce you to.”

Sebastian turns to see Moriarty with his arms crossed, foot tapping as he leans against the wall by the staircase. He scowls at Sebastian, and jerks his head towards the stairs. “Save it. Go upstairs. You came to see, so go see. Then maybe you can leave Daddy to work in peace.”

++

Sebastian takes one step into the attic and smells the hot dust of a desert storm outside Kandahar. Poppies. Oil burning in the distance. His fingers twitch for the weight of his gun.

Around him the room drips with gore; each canvas is a murder, in progress or already finished. A man slumps over a table, red sheet of blood from his slit throat washing out towards the camera screen. A woman screams as a knife cuts through her bottom eyelid, splitting the skin open over her cheekbone. The canvas facing the door shows a man already dead from a gunshot to the back of the skull; his corpse kneeling, caught in the pause before it slumps to the ground. The red spatter of blood and brain over the concrete in front of it is horrifyingly vivid, saturation pumped up to eleven.

 _Oh Jesus,_ is Sebastian’s first thought, _Oh fucking hell, he’s insane._

The second thought, unfortunately, comes out of his mouth before it goes through his brain. “There is no way these shots were simulated. They’re real.”

Moriarty shuts the door behind them, with a loud and final _click_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry to interrupt your mormor, but [gimmemormor](http://gimmemormor.tumblr.com) on tumblr is doing a giveaway, and I'm helping out! One random winner will get a fansong for their favourite ship by the _mother_ of all mormor fanmusic - and then I'll go through and illustrate all of the lyrics! Like a little music video! Rad, huh?
> 
> All you have to do is reblog [here](http://gimmemormor.tumblr.com/post/87673764150/goingbadly-gimmemormor-so-yesterday-i-hit) before June 7th! [Go!](http://gimmemormor.tumblr.com/post/87673764150/goingbadly-gimmemormor-so-yesterday-i-hit)

“Now, now, Sebastian,” Moriarty drones, his tone lightly mocking. “Don’t be so dramatic. It's all costuming and make up. Impressive, of course...”

Sebastian steps forward, walking between the frames. Blood and death and gore stretch fingers out to him from every side. The violence all blurs together, until Sebastian has to shut his eyes and blink blood from the lids. Oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck._ If he’d thought he was walking in Moriarty’s brain before – well, Jesus fucking Christ, he hopes he’s not _now._

One of the shots near the back of the room has a man clutching his side over a gunshot wound. Blood pumps out through his fingers. The picture is monochrome; the shine of his sweat and glisten of liquid beneath his hand picked out in pure white. Seb reaches out to it, trails his fingers over the rough canvas. When he looks close, all the details in the frame turns to pixels.

“I’ve had this done to me,” he says. Moriarty’s footsteps are loud in the quiet room, coming to a stop just behind Seb. “It isn’t fake, Moriarty.”

Moriarty’s voice is soft, almost kind. “Tell yourself it is, darling.”

Sebastian turns to look at him. Something inhuman looks back; something huge and emotionless and devouring. Moriarty’s slim shoulders don’t seem broad enough to support the weight of the tension in the air.

He twists his neck out to the side like a lizard, stretching his spine. “Ask me no questions, Moran, I tell you no lies.”

A horrible thought strikes Sebastian. “Is this what you meant by too high profile? Can't use me for these because someone would miss me.”

“Oh no. No. The upper floor has nothing to do with Irene. She doesn’t have any idea…”

“It's you, isn't it? You’re not just photographing. You _did_ this.” Seb swallows, hard, his throat sticky and dry. “This is why my shoots with you turn out so different. Combat instinct. I feel _vulnerable._ ”

Moriarty smiles like a shark scenting blood in the water. “And it’s ever so endearing, I'll have you know.”

Seb feels his foot start to slide backwards, body curling away from Moriarty. He forces himself to stay still, refusing to retreat. No one ever accused Sebastian of being a coward. Or of being particularly smart. The attic of the studio is lit by hanging bulbs. The long shadows cast by the canvases lie across the wooden floorboards like trees in a gruesome forest. One crosses Moriarty’s face, leaving half of him in darkness. He’s still watching Sebastian, with a polite, curious expression. Sebastian draws his shoulders up, pinching them together over his spine, and lifts his chin. Like _hell_ he’s running from a fucking _fashion_ photographer.

“So, what's the survival rate, for those models?” he asks, sounding more glib then he feels.

“If you keep asking questions you might not like where they take you,” Moriarty replies coolly. “Repeat after me; it’s all _make-up_.”

“Right.” Sebastian gestures to his face. “Because I don’t know what I’m talking about. I showed you mine, Moriarty. Why don’t you show me yours?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Moriarty says, very quietly, “Be careful, Moran. Or I just might.” He tilts his head like a bird, staring at Sebastian. That looming feeling itches down Sebastian’s back. His hands are trembling as adrenaline rushes through him, pure and clean and bright. Moriarty shakes his head, amused. “But it’s really none of your business either way, is it?” he asks, smiling.

Seb misses the grip of his gun. He misses the war. The thought that he’s out of it – that whatever Moriarty is, it’s none of his business – should be reassuring. It isn’t. He _wants_ it to be his business; wants the violence back, terrifying and heart-pounding and real.

“No,” he says finally, “Guess it’s not.”

He shoves past Moriarty to the door. He’s almost got one foot on the stairs when Moriarty says, suddenly, “Dinner. Tomorrow. I’ll send a car.”

“What?” Sebastian turns to gape at Moriarty. “ _Dinner?_ Why would I – “ Moriarty just smiles at Seb, saying nothing. His eyebrows arch, as if waiting for a response. Seb swallows down his words, and glares at Moriarty. The silence stretches between them. Moriarty’s mocking grin just gets wider, already knowing what Sebastian’s going to say.

 _Damn him to fucking hell for being so fucking smug and fuck him straight up the arse with a –_ “Fine,” Sebastian snaps, “Dinner. Tomorrow.”

++

A shiny black Porsche picks Sebastian up at six pm the next day. He doesn’t even think about putting his makeup on. Tammy’s gone fucking nutters about the dinner plans, of course, because it means blowing off a meet-and-greet. Whatever. Seb’s pretty sure he’ll get more calls if they _don’t_ meet him first. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone in the business, and they seem to be able to smell it on him.

Seb expects Moriarty to be waiting in the backseat of the Porsche when he gets in, but it’s empty. The driver doesn’t say a word; just turns the car into traffic and pulls away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” Seb asks.

Silence.

“I said,” Sebastian tries, a little louder, “Where are we going?” It doesn’t get him anything else. The driver’s shoulders are squared off and rigid, spine painfully straight. Sebastian considers threatening him, but Moriarty’s probably got better threats then Seb does. What do you say? _I’ll punch you? I’ll rough you up?_ Moriarty has that fucking _looming_ thing. Sebastian sags back against the leather, sulking. _Fine_. He picks at the collar of his black V-neck sweater, wondering when his closet got full of fashionably uncomfortable clothes. It itches at his neck, and he shifts his weight from side to side, trying to get away without scratching. His palms feel clammy. His mouth is a little bit dry.

Okay, so he’s nervous. Sue him.

The car heads out of the city into the sprawl, and the houses grow steadily larger outside the windows. By the time the car slows down, turn signal ticking, they're driving by old-Hollywood-style _mansions_. Update, of course. Probably with the kind of vicious security that makes thieves disappear. Moriarty’s house has an electronic gate that only opens when the driver swipes his card.

 _Well, fuck,_ Seb thinks, _how the other half lives._ He makes fair money modelling, but he’s not exactly going to get MTV cribs knocking down the door at Conduit Street. Moriarty, on the other hand – Moriarty could host a roman orgy on his front porch and still have room to play a full game of pool. The massive double doors are some sort of stained, golden wood, set in with glass panels. There’s white columns and black iron and all of it screams, _disposable income._

The driver opens the front door with his card. Moriarty’s in the hall, already waiting; leant up against the newel post with his arms folded over a crisp dark suit. He flicks his arm out to pull back his sleeve, and checks his watch.

“Remind me in the future that if I want you on time, I have to pick you up,” he tells Sebastian, holding his hand out to the driver. The driver places his pass card on Moriarty’s pale palm, tips his hat, and leaves. Moriarty curls his fingers around it slowly, eyes glued to the departing man’s back. His expression is calculating and cold; Seb thinks he’s figuring battle-tactics in his head. Moriarty’s hair looks impeccable, as always; his posture against the post a perfect blend of relaxed and attentive, like a snake waiting to strike.

Before he can help himself, Sebastian asks, “Why didn't _you_ take up modelling?”

He startles a laugh out of Moriarty, who tears his eyes away from the driver to glance at Seb with a grin. “Let’s say I'm not photogenic, shall we?”

“Or you prefer to play in the shadows.”

Moriarty’s head sways from side to side, stretching out the tendons in his neck. “Funny how everyone forgets about the person behind the camera...”

“I haven’t.”

“No.” Moriarty pushes off the newel post, and wanders over to Sebastian. “Which begs the question: why are you here? It can’t _just_ be poor survival instincts.”

“Those photos…”

Moriarty clicks his tongue, interrupting. “Curiosity, Moran. _Cat._ ”

“If I'm right, and they're real, I'll end up starring in them?”

Another startled laugh, “No – no. _That_ would be a waste.” Moriarty’s smile changes from malicious to friendly in an instant. “Do you want some wine, Se- _bas_ -tian?” he asks, drawing the syllables of Seb’s name out into a joke. Without waiting for an answer, he turns and pads off to the kitchen, leaving Seb to trail in his wake. The house is just as huge as it looks from the outside and absolutely silent. Seb gets the feeling there isn’t another living soul on the property. It’s sparsely decorated, with an open, sprawling floor plan; but the white walls are covered with such a profusion of photographs and paintings that the place seems cluttered. Some of them aren’t even hung yet; leaning or stacked on top of each other. Some have clearly been defaced: written on with scratchy handwriting in neon colours, models with their eyes crossed out, a Glasgow Smile drawn on Marilyn Monroe.

Moriarty is pouring wine at the kitchen island. It’s scattered with paper – Seb recognizes the proofs from his GQ shoot, and some art piece Sherlock had done a while back. Moriarty doesn’t speak until he hands a Seb a glass of wine.

Seb toys with it, debating the chance he’ll be able to put it down without Moriarty noticing. Not really a _wine_ man, to tell the truth. Moriarty swirls his burgundy expertly, then leans forward over the island.

“ _If,_ ” he says, with an ironic smile, “ _If_ those photos were real, I wouldn’t want you for them. But don’t worry. You’re still pretty enough to be my favorite toy soldier, if you try really hard.” He’s mocking now, only half pretending he’s innocent. Seb sets his wineglass down – purposefully on one of the glossy photos of Sherlock – and scowls. Moriarty smiles dreamily. “I would have something in mind, just for you. It would be really thoughtful of me, actually.” His finger runs the rim of his wine glass, making it sing. “I wouldn’t want to beat you to _death,_ Se _bas_ tian. I would still _beat_ you, but I would photograph the injuries as they heal. Smash you all up and watch you stich yourself back together…” He sighs, head swaying on his neck as he pictures it. “I’ve always wanted to take something lovely, and break it, and photograph the pieces…” Sebastian stares at Moriarty, mouth dry. Moriarty’s big doe eyes open slowly, his smile soft and affectionate. “Oops. Now I’ve gone and said too much. You just _had_ to push.”

There’s a knife-holder on the counter just behind Moriarty and Seb finds his eyes drawn to it. Fear winds tight around his gut. He licks his lips. Staring Moriarty down, he feels more alive than he has in years. He feels _good_ again, out on the razor edge where he belongs. Moriarty sips his wine, red liquid like blood sliding between his lips, and Seb thinks _fuck it,_ and a dizzying rush of freedom spills through his brain.

“ _Yes,_ ” he says into the silence, without any context whatsoever.

Moriarty blinks, and tilts his head. “I’m sorry?”

“I said yes. I’ll do it.”

Moriarty takes a moment, leans back and looks at Seb – really _looks._ It’s like being pinned again. As if Moriarty’s eyes can cleave right to Seb’s bones, right to the heart of him. “If I am what you think I am, that isn’t terribly smart of you.”

“I know it’s not smart. It’s not rational. This... is something else.”

Moriarty considers this. “Something you _need_ ,” he says slowly, “Even when you’re not sure you really _like_ it. Like a fire in your blood. An _itch._ ”

The truth hangs in the air between them. Seb takes a deep breath. “When do we start?”

“As soon as you're ready.” Moriarty drains the rest of his wine, and smiles with his lips stained dark. “If I don’t scare you yet, Sebastian, I _plan_ to.”

++

Moriarty leads him to a couch in front of a bay window. It’s gorgeous, a shining black wood with spotless cream upholstery. Seb feels dirty just looking at it. The canvases on the walls behind it show a techno-forest, crimson birds playing among wire-and-circuit trees.

“I’m going to try and pose you the same in each photo,” Moriarty says, “Relaxed. _Lounging._ Of course with the injuries, it will be impossible for a while… But I trust you to try your very hardest.” He waves a hand in the direction of the couch. “Strip and get started. I’ll fetch the camera.”

He disappears from the room, footsteps silent on the hardwood floors. Sebastian pulls his sweater over his head and tosses it to the side; fucked if he’s going to fold it into a neat little pile like a good dog. His trousers get kicked in the same direction, and he’s left in the plain black pants he wore in. Lucky his trousers were tight enough that he didn’t wear boxers. The black pants just manage to be acceptable for photos; plus, Sebastian will be _double_ fucked if he’s going to strip naked.

The house had seemed warm before; but now the cold air tingles over his skin. He feels, in his pants, somehow _more_ exposed then he’s ever been before; including the time he’d let a one-night stand tie him naked in front of a hotel window. It’s Moriarty, again. It always is. Those fucking eyes. Seb shivers, rubbing a hand over his face to clear out his thoughts. He settles himself gingerly down onto the couch – praying to God there isn’t dirt on his hands. You could see a spot on those cushions a fucking mile away, and he gets the feeling Moriarty wouldn't be forgiving.

“Very nice,” Moriarty says sardonically. Seb jumps. Moriarty is standing in the doorframe with his camera held loose in his hands. The strap sways, tapping against his leg.

Sebastian feels his skin prick up in goose bumps. “Been a long time since someone could sneak up on me,” he tells Moriarty.

Moriarty rolls his eyes. “I’d tell you to get used to it, but I don’t think you could manage.” He glides soundlessly over the floor towards Sebastian, slinging the camera strap around his shoulder. Seb can’t help himself; when Moriarty bends over to reposition him, he flinches.

Moriarty’s fingers still, then he laughs and taps his finger on Seb’s cheek. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to beat you here. Wouldn't want to ruin the couch. Yet, anyways.” One finger slides under Sebastian’s chin and tilts it upwards. “Stay.”

Like Sebastian has a choice.

Moriarty steps back, and raises the camera to his eye. Sebastian barely hears the shutter click. He’s watching Moriarty’s tongue, caught between his teeth as he concentrates on the shots. Sebastian’s known killers before, known men in the military that took the _best-defense-is-a-good-offense thing_ too far. Fuck, he’s _been_ that guy. But here comes Moriarty, five-foot-eight on a good day and looking like the gay boy next door, and suddenly Seb’s got liquid nitrogen for blood.

Moriarty barely takes three shots before he lowers his camera. Sebastian isn't going to protest. He can feel the tension building in the air. Moriarty's motions are slow, perfectly controlled, and he never takes his eyes off Seb. His hands are so tight on the camera his knuckles have gone white. It might be nerves, but Seb doubts it. Moriarty’s got a deep hunger in his eyes. If he’s shaking, it’s from holding back.

“That should do,” he says. He tugs the camera off his neck and sets it down on the floor, out of the way. Sebastian rolls himself into a sitting position. Moriarty crooks a finger at him. “Come on, soldier boy.”

He leads Sebastian to a small door at the back of the house, with the kind of heavy-duty lock that you need a battering ram to break. When he opens it, Seb sees the back is barred with heavy metal. It’s not the kind of door you keep _potatoes_ behind. Moriarty pulls an old style ball-chain beside the door. A single bare light bulb sparks on overhead. It barely illuminates the narrow wooden stairs, descending into darkness like a pit.

“Very _Amityville Horror_ of you,” Seb says, deflecting his own uneasiness with humor.

“Can’t help myself,” Moriarty replies, and isn’t _that_ true in more ways than one. He gestures Sebastian down the stairs.

Seb tries very hard to pretend the hairs on the back of his neck aren’t standing at attention as he walks down into that obvious fucking deathtrap with Moriarty at his back.

At the bottom of the steps he pauses to let his eyes adjust. The stairs give way to a bare concrete floor, and what looks like an utterly windowless room. It’s pitch black, until a switch clicks behind him and the fluorescent lights laid into the low ceiling flicker to life. The basement must run beneath the entire mansion; it’s entirely open and exposed. There are no walls Sebastian can see; only bare wood posts to support the ceiling. Huge, and sprawling, with nowhere to hide.

It’s also very obviously where the snuff photos from Jim's studio were shot. Striations in the concrete give it away; little things, the way the shadows of the beams fall over the floor. Seb turns to see Moriarty watching him from the bottom of the staircase, his hand still on the light switch. There’s a cricket bat leaning against the wall next to him.

Seb smiles colourlessly. “Were you expecting me?” His humour falls flat and fearful.

”You can still back out if you'd like,” Moriarty says steadily. “Scurry away and say nothing, and I'll let you live.”

“You’re not going to kill me either way,” Seb tells him, with more confidence than he feels. He turns away from Moriarty, looking out over the basement. Searching for bloodstains, even though he knows Moriarty wouldn’t be that careless.

Moriarty snorts behind him. “You know, I can't decide if you're brave or stupid. _Right,_ as it happens, but still.”

“Whatever.” Sebastian starts to turn back. “So how do you - ?”

The end of the question is cut off by the cricket bat slamming into the side of his head at what feels like a hundred miles per hour. Not expecting it, Sebastian crumples: like a fucking _kid,_ like a rookie jar-head, like a _ninety pound girl._ Moriarty, standing over him, laughs. The bat swings in his hand, casual and just as natural as the camera.

“And away -  we - _go!_ ” he sings, and raises it again.

Sebastian gets one foot under him, pushing himself up just in time to catch Moriarty’s upswing on his chin. He feels something crack, and grunts in pain as he tumbles backwards. Every bone of his spine hits the floor one after another, pain singing in his shoulder-blades and jaw. His ears are ringing. This time he gets as far as rolling over on his stomach when the bat comes whistling down into his ribs.

Another sick _crack._ This time Seb _does_ cry out, unable even to hear himself over the buzz in his ears. Moriarty puts a foot on his shoulder and kicks him over onto his back. He says something Seb can’t hear, sweet lips moving on awful words. Sebastian shakes his head. Moriarty shrugs, and raises the bat again.

Shoulder. Arm. Chest. His upper thigh, so close to his cock that for a heart-attack second Seb thinks Moriarty is going to _castrate_ him. Moriarty never pauses – never hesitates, until Sebastian’s entire body is on fire. The cricket bat makes mulch of his skin. The third blow to the face splits Seb’s lip, driving the back of his skull hard into the impassive concrete. This time the crack might be the pulpy mess of his nose, or it might be his skull. Seb can’t tell.

He risks raising his arms around his head, leaving his body open to protect his face. Moriarty takes the opportunity with vicious glee, driving the end of the bat hard into Sebastian’s stomach. Sebastian spits blood and saliva onto the floor, thick snot dripping over his lips. He feels himself go lost on the white noise of pain, drifting somewhere above the nerve-endings screaming for attention. The basement seems dark, as if the lights have all gone out without permission.

He doesn’t realize the beating has stopped until Moriarty grabs a handful of his hair and hauls him to his knees. Sebastian is panting, making short embarrassing noises like whimpers in the back of his throat. Moriarty is breathing hard as well, his eyes blown and cheeks flush with exertion. He stares down into Sebastian’s face, drinking him in, and Seb – Seb can’t do anything but sway on his knees and bleed. God, if Moriarty doesn’t kill him, _Tammy_ fucking will. He doesn't have a modelling career - he barely even has a _face_ anymore, from what he's feeling.

Moriarty throws Sebastian roughly backwards, and turns away. “Get yourself to the couch,” he rasps, voice unsteady.

Sebastian takes a shaky breath, and with an effort, stumbles to his feet. He falls forward almost immediately, knees refusing to work. A splinter cuts into his palm when he catches himself on the pole in front of him. Sebastian bites his lip, hard, and forces himself upright. He can feel the weight of Moriarty’s eyes on his neck, watching him coldly, as if he’s interested in seeing how far Sebastian can go in this condition.

Seb pushes himself off the pole and towards the stairs, black spots swimming through his vision. Some part of him – the part that never came home from the desert – is analyzing damage, flooding his broken body with enough adrenaline to keep moving. If Seb has a motto, it’s _never let the bastards see you break,_ and fucked if he’ll give up because a _photographer_ hit him with a stick.

Still. When he finally collapses on the couch, he’s panting and trembling, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have legs at all. His body feels numb and distant, all the shrieking pain overloading his circuits. It’s like floating. Somewhere high and distant above himself, Sebastian looks down and sees his blood seeping into the crisp white couch.

“Can you replicate your pose from earlier?” Moriarty asks, with clinical curiosity. Sebastian tries. The pose puts enough stress on his ribs and stomach that reality blurs and darkens, dancing sickeningly on the edge of unconsciousness. Sebastian grits his teeth, digs his fingernails in. There’s blood in his mouth, and he can’t tell if it’s from Moriarty or if he’s bitten through his tongue.

The shutter, clicking. _When did Moriarty pick up his camera?_

The dark spots are growing. Sebastian’s position above himself feels shaky. The floor is spinning, and the camera lens is growing to swallow him whole.

The last thing he hears before he’s devoured is Moriarty’s quiet voice.

_“Beautiful.”_

And then a welcome, obliterating silence.

++


	4. Chapter 4

Someone is firing a laser beam through Sebastian’s eye socket, straight up into his brain. He slumps over to his side with a groan, burying his face in the pillows. He feels like he’s been run over by a truck.

First thought: Whatever drugs he did last night, he’s going to fucking _kill_ his dealer. Second thought: The pillows _smell_ wrong.

A thousand combat-ready instincts fire into action at once, and Sebastian bolts upright. The adrenaline rush almost makes the pain at sudden movement bearable. Almost - but not quite. Sebastian grunts, pressing a hand to his aching ribs. He prods at them gingerly as he looks around, trying to figure out the extent of the damage. The room he’s in has maroon walls, with creamy white trim and sheer curtains over the high windows. The sheets around his waist are crisp, dense black, and spotted with crusted blood.

 _Moriarty._ The memories return all at once, like a slap to the face, and Sebastian flops back on the bed. “Ah, _fuck_.” He’s really stepped in it this time.

Sebastian starts to rub his hand over his face, and yelps. His nose is a throbbing mess, and there’s something poking out of his cheekbone Sebastian is disturbingly certain is bone. He feels like he’s gone three falls out of five with a really, _really_ angry bear.

Somehow he manages to make it to the side of the bed without screaming. What gets him there is mainly gritted teeth and a constant refrain of, _I was in the fucking military, he’s shorter than a Krispies mascot._

His clothes are folded on the bedside table, cellphone placed neatly on top. He presses the button, but it refuses to turn on – probably dead. Tammy’s going to _love_ this.

“Well good _morning,_ sunshine,” Jim says from the doorway, “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Sebastian gets halfway through whirling to face him and has to grab the bedside table to stay upright. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, no. Can I get you anything? Crutches? Breakfast? Aspirin and sympathy?” Jim laughs. He’s holding a plate of toast, leaning against the doorframe as he pecks at it. The crusty bread is smothered in a thick layer of blackberry jam, sticky and glistening. Jim’s lips are stained a deep purple. He licks his fingers clean, sucking them down in a way that’s just this side of campy, then grins widely at Sebastian.

“I don’t want your sympathy,” Sebastian snaps.

“But you stayed over and everything! I haven’t had a sleepover in years. You didn’t even braid my hair and tell me secrets…” Jim ambles into the room and sets his plate of toast down on the dresser. He looks Sebastian over with an expression that could be called _predatory,_ or maybe _dissecting._

“My phone's dead,” Sebastian says, holding it up between them to deliberately interrupt Jim’s inspection, “If you want to call me a cab.”

Jim shrugs, wanders over, and bounces onto the bed. “Here I thought you were going to be professional and do the follow-up shots…”

Seb grimaces.

“I’d forgotten – _Oi_!” Jim’s reached forward and pulled the sheet aside to look at the bruises on Seb’s thighs. Or maybe just to get an eyeful of Seb’s dick; it’s a little unclear.

Seb scrambles to cover himself, clutching a hand around his dick and twisting his hips to the side. “Do you _mind?!”_

“Who do you think undressed you?” Jim snorts. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes, as if he can’t _believe_ how ridiculous Seb’s being. Seb, on the other hand, is of the opinion that he really prefers to _choose_ who gets up close and personal with his cock. Alright, he’s got to admit, he’s going to have some really fucked-up masturbatory fantasies concerning Jim in the future – but that does _not_ mean he’s okay with short-dark-and-psychotic getting _handsy_.

“Can I at least put my fucking pants on?”

“If you must.” Jim watches coolly as Sebastian leans over to grab his pants off the bedside table, head cocked to the side. The motion makes Sebastian’s brain swim sickeningly inside his skull. The crook in Jim’s neck makes him look like a curious bird; Sebastian, light-headed, thinks of a nature documentary he’d watched once. It’d covered carrion feeders; crows picking the eyes out of a roadkill dog. Jim has the same glint of curiosity they did, the same feather-like sheen to his black hair.

“Are you going to pass out again, Sebastian?” Jim murmurs. It could pass for polite, if it were anyone but Jim.

“I was in the _military_ ,” Sebastian reminds him, tugging his pants on.

“And yet,” Jim replies, disinterested again, “It didn’t prepare you for me.” He hops off the bed and snaps his fingers. “Come and impress me, then. Give you a dogbone if you can sit right.”

++

He can’t, of course. “Ah, fuck...”

“Difficult?” Jim’s hands still on the camera. He smiles slowly, lips creeping upwards over his pointed canines.

Sebastian remembers the run of light up a crow’s beak, half soaked and dripping in gore. “Not going to be modelling for a while.”

“How _will_ the industry go on without you.”

Sebastian snarls, but can’t think of anything else to say. He tries again to recreate his pose from yesterday. The couch is cold and stiff underneath him, and every inch of his bruised skin cries out in protest. His skin prickles up into goose bumps in the chill morning air. Jim stands over him, impersonal and detached. Seb could do with a little more of that heat from the earlier shoots, now.

“Move your left shoulder down,” Jim says. The position puts more stress on Sebastian’s ribs, until he thinks he’s going to scream. From the way Jim lowers the camera to watch, that’s intentional. A spark of warmth flares in Sebastian’s gut. “ _More,_ ” Jim insists. His detachment is starting to look a little suspect; seems more like he’s playing unaffected to get under Sebastian’s skin. Sebastian growls, and does as he says. Jim raises the camera back to his eye.

“Are you _trying_ to make me give up?” Sebastian grunts, to take his mind off things.

“Well... Mm. No. Not exactly.” Jim’s face is obscured by the camera, but Sebastian can still see his teeth as he grins. Jim takes a couple shots - slow and careful - making sure each one is exact to the ‘before.’ He’s working slowly on purpose; seeing how long Sebastian will hold the position.

Seb’s old drill sergeant would have liked Moriarty, he thinks.

“I would try and make you give up,” Jim continues, circling the couch like a buzzard around carrion, “But I know you’re not _going_ to. You’re not a particularly _flexible_ soul _,_ Sebastian. You’ll break before you’ll bend. And I must say, I really _am_ looking forward to when that happens.”

Sebastian doesn’t give Jim the satisfaction of turning to watch him, even though the hair on his neck is standing up. Jim’s footsteps on the floor are absolutely silent, even to Sebastian’s trained ears.

It’s fucking _unnatural,_ in Sebastian’s opinion.

“You’re not going to break me,” he tells Jim. “Just like you’re not going to kill me.”

The camera clicks. “Killing you would be a waste,” Jim agrees. “Breaking you, on the other hand… You know, I couldn’t _possibly_ hang up all my work in that one little gallery. You’ve barely scratched the _surface_ of what I am, darling. And I could use someone like you in so _many_ ways…”

“Someone like me?”

Click. “A killer, darling.” Jim lowers the camera to look at him. “A murderer. Rabid dog on a very loose leash…”

Sebastian shifts his shoulder, nearly losing his position. His ribs scream in protest. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Yeah, okay, I am.” Jim grins, completely unashamed of himself. “But I’m also _right._ ”

Sebastian attempts to sit up. Before he’s even tensing his muscles Jim’s palm presses into his chest, camera clutched protectively in the other arm. Sebastian goes still.

Their eyes hold for a tense moment, the air between them claustrophobic and hot like the center of a forest fire. Jim’s eyes are blank. He doesn’t put any pressure on Seb’s chest. He just lets his touch linger there, and it’s enough. Jim doesn’t need force to make a threat; those eyes are enough, black, horrifyingly innocent considering what he is.

“Fine,” Seb admits, easing himself back down, “I was in the military. I killed people. But there is a difference between _military_ and _murder._ ”

Jim’s fingertips trail over Seb’s bruised skin as he pulls away. “Do you really believe that?” he asks, checking his focus.

Sebastian lets silence hang between them for longer than he should. “There's supposed to be.”

“No…” Jim looks up. “Now, now. That won’t do. I expect scout’s-honour truth, Sebastian. How you _ached…_ How you _missed_ it…”

Seb licks his lips. Fuck Moriarty. And _fuck_ the electrical fire that blazes down Sebastian’s spine at the sight of him. Moriarty is a one-man warzone, and damn him for knowing, but Seb _missed_ that.

God, his lips are dry. Seb rolls his neck, and tries to find a position on the couch that doesn’t make his body feel like he’s been tied in a potato sack with a badger. He shuts his eyes. Back in the army, they taught him some meditation as a part of mandatory anger-management classes. There’s usually a calm place in Seb’s center where he can retreat, but now? His insides are _boiling_. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s heard the camera click; seems like too long, though.

To fill the space between them, to make it just a fraction less tense, Sebastian chokes out, “Other guys - went home, settled down, I...”

“Oh, you tried to blend in,” Jim interrupts in a purr, pleased, “And it worked for a while. But as hard as you tried, you never stopped _wanting._ ” Sebastian opens his eyes to find Jim looking down at him; camera placed neatly away on the floor. His face is close; so close Sebastian can see the single grey freckle on Jim’s eyelid.

The truth hangs between them, Jim’s deep voice mingling in their breath. Seb feels his words like a needle through a blood-blister; the sharp prick of pain, and then release.

“Yes.” Seb aches to add _I’m not like you,_ _I’m not a killer, I would never hurt innocent people._

He can’t.

Jim reaches out and pats his cheek. “You haven’t killed anyone yet, darling, I know. Shhh.” His thumb strokes over Sebastian’s skin - calm and tender - following the contours of his broken bones. It feels like getting cut open. Sebastian shuts his eyes again. “You still are what you are. Most people call the police when they meet a murderer. You’d rather go out to dinner with him.” Jim’s lips press to Sebastian’s cheek, dry, rough with chapped skin. “Don’t think you can lie to me, dear. We have too much in common.”

Sebastian fights a shudder.

_Words. I need words._

“Whatever,” Seb manages cleverly, in a rough growl. “Can I sit up?”

Christ, he sounds like someone’s taken a can opener to his throat. He can feel the heat of Jim’s hands, idling on his skin, thumb tracing a graceful figure-eight over Sebastian’s scars.

Jim hums. “I suppose I am finished now…”

When he draws away he takes his body heat with him, and the air stops feeling like a plastic bag over Sebastian’s head. Sebastian blinks his eyes open. The room seems startlingly blue and bright. Jim’s only withdrawn a handbreadth, so he’s still leaning on the couch over Sebastian with an expression like Seb is his science-fair project. If the photographer wasn’t bite-sized, Seb’d think Jim was trying to pin him. A few dark spots drift across his vision Seb’s vision. Between his ribs his bruised nerves are jangling, pain arching under his skin. Jim looks at him, and smiles.

Seb’s not afraid of a guy who would have to wear heels to make five-ten. He’s _not._

It’s perfectly normal to get chills in a situation like this; plus, he’s only avoiding Moriarty’s eyes because it might be _awkward_ otherwise. Not like he’s avoiding Moriarty. Or backing down. Or anything like that.

Seb bites the inside of his cheek hard to focus himself. When meditation fails, pain usually succeeds. Not this time. Jim’s eyes are suffocating him.

Seb sucks in a breath over his teeth with a whistling sound, and Jim laughs at him: light and airy. He pushes himself away from Seb and wanders back to his camera. Sebastian’s going to have to ask one day why Jim has such a fascination with checking his shots immediately afterwards.

Trying for normal, he asks Jim’s turned back, “So... when do you want to see me next?”

“Tomorrow. Bruises fade so fast, after all…” After a moment, Jim cranes his neck to look at Sebastian, and scowls. “You’re thinking too loud. Out with it.”

Sebastian sits up and rubs one hand over the back of his neck. He takes a long moment to think before asking. There must be a good way to phrase what’s on his mind, but fuck it; Sebastian is a soldier-cum-pretty boy, not an author.

“What the fuck are we doing?”

Jim rolls his eyes and turns back away dismissing the question. “It's a photo shoot. I thought you might have noticed. You _did_ claim to do them professionally…”

“This is just a _photo shoot?_ Come on. Christ. You took a fucking cricket bat to me.”

Jim slings his camera back over his shoulder, and turns to face Sebastian. He plants his hands on his hips, eyes raking over Seb. His head tilts sideways in a sharp, smooth motion, like the movement of a lizard.

“This is the last time I’ll remind you, Sebastian. Tip. Iceberg. You, darling, are my own personal Titanic.” He wiggles his fingers at Seb. “And you know where the door is, _killer-mine._ ”

++

“What do you _mean_ , a fucking month off? _Jesus,_ Seb, I know I go for dumb and pretty, but you are _not_ doing this with me.”

“Tammy – “

In Seb’s tinny phone speaker, Tammy sounds like she’s just drank a litre of vinegar. “What is your _problem?_ Jim fucking Moriarty asked for you twice! _Twice!_ You could shoot with a beer gut the size of John Travolta’s and still sell photos!” Sebastian can almost picture Tammy gripping her hair in frustration. “You are the highest you have ever been in your entire career, Sebastian James Moran,” she rants, “And if you fucking walk out on me now, I will drop you. You hear me? I will fucking drop you like a microwaved potato.”

“A microwaved –“

“Don’t you dare pick on my metaphors. Not now.”

“Fuck, Tam, can I finish a goddamn sentence?”

There’s a short silence. Finally, Tammy says, “If you must,” with an offended huff.

“It’s Jim – Moriarty, I mean. He’s got a project he wants to work on. Leaves me out of commission for a bit.”

“Out of – out of – is he seriously monopolizing you?” Tammy’s voice rises to a frankly terrifying octave in what he can only imagine is horror. Sebastian taps the speaker on, and sets his phone down on his bedside table.

“That’s… one way to put it,” he says, and pulls his shirt over his head. In the mirror his bones and muscles are picked out by deep lines of angry bruising. His chest looks like a thunderstorm, purple and red and yellow like lightning. He only dimly hears Tammy start to yell again.

“Well you’re not his fucking dog, Moran. You’re mine. And you are _not – “_

Over his cheekbone the edge of the cricket bat left a long, slim welt, like the kiss of a riding crop.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, “I am.” He stabs his finger down on the red End Call button, and stares at the bleeding man in the mirror.

So much for his modelling career.

++

“Get on the couch,” Jim snaps, when Sebastian opens the door. He’s standing in the hallway, practically vibrating with malevolent energy. He bounces on the balls of his feet, usually slick hair flying around his head in wispy tufts.

“Wow,” Sebastian says, “You look like crap.”

“Don’t _start_ with me, Sebastian,” Jim scowls, snapping his fingers and pointing towards the couch, “I am _not in the mood._ ”

Sebastian really doesn’t _want_ to snark back, but it’s not like he has a choice. He has a reputation to uphold. If Jim expects Sebastian to roll over and play Twiggy for him, he can find a different fucking model.

“You’re not in a good mood. _Shocking._ ”

Jim, with that blinding-fast speed Sebastian is pretty sure he has _no right_ to possess, gets up in Sebastian’s face. Impressive, considering the height difference. “One more word, _pet_ ,” he snarls, teeth inches from Sebastian’s lip, “And I’ll use that _submissive streak_ of yours to turn you inside out.”

Sebastian has to laugh, despite the fact that his stomach goes plummeting several stories downwards. “I’m not submissive. And I’m not your fucking pet.” He shoulders past Jim, those raised eyebrows scalding him as he headstowards the living room. “It’s just for the _fucking_ camera. Do me a favour. Don’t forget that.”

Jim pads after him silently. When Sebastian strips his shirt off and looks back, he sees the faint smile twitching at the corners of Jim’s mouth.

“No…” he says, amused, looking Sebastian up and down, “You can’t _actually_ believe that.”

Sebastian’s shirt drops to the floor. “I’m not _submissive_.”

The faint smile becomes a wide grin. “Lucky you, I think that may actually be funny enough to put me in a better mood.” Jim says, stretching out his neck and cracking his knuckles.

“Fuck you.” Sebastian shoves his trousers down over his hips, so quick it can only be called _violently._

“You just quit your agency for me. Do you think I hadn’t heard?” Moriarty giggles, bright and piercing. “You’re so easy.”

“Fuck you,” Sebastian repeats, not having much of a thing for comebacks.

Moriarty rocks back and forth on his heels, watching Sebastian with his giggles still drying in his mouth. “Wind you up and enjoy the show….”

“Get fucked, Moriarty,” Seb snaps, rounding on him, “I don't even know why I came at this point.”

Jim stops rocking and sighs. “Because you couldn’t stay away, even if I double-dog dared you to...” he says, with a lazy flick of his fingers like he’s trying to get something off them. As if Sebastian has gone from amusing to _boring._

Sebastian’s chest tightens in anger. “This is a fucking game to you, isn’t it?”

“Everything’s a game, pet. That’s how I survive.” Sebastian kicks his trousers viciously to the side. Jim cocks his head. Sebastian can feel rather than see the close inspection Jim’s eyes make as they rake down Sebastian’s black and purple ribcage. “There’s not enough difference yet for me to waste time photographing it…” His fingers twitch, like he wants to touch Sebastian’s bruises.

“So, what – I’m putting up with you for nothing?”

“Not quite.” Jim looks appraisingly at Seb, then, making up his mind – “Upstairs. On the bed in the master bedroom. That purple against the white sheets… Sherlock _did_ say we should shoot for _Playgirl._ ”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

Jim grins, wide and wolfish. “Tell you more about my _interesting_ work if you act like one of my French girls.”

Sebastian debates it for a moment, then scowls. _“Fine._ ” He stomps upstairs and throws himself on the bed, in the same rigid position he’d used on the couch.

“No... no,” Jim says behind him, from the doorway. “Not nearly so forced. This one is going to be gentler.”

Seb looks over his shoulder. “I didn't know you and I did gentle.” Jim stalks across the room to the bed in silence, rolling his shoulders. He looks lean and vicious, a predator on the hunt. His eyes skim down Sebastian’s body, dark eyelashes shading his eyes.

Sebastian tries not to swallow, or think about snakes eating their pray whole.

Jim leans over the bed and traces his fingers slowly, softly, over Sebastian’s scars up to his shoulders. Sebastian goes tense, breath caught in his throat.

“We do whatever I say we do, darling.”

Seb couldn’t be more on edge if someone had told him Jim was a nuclear bomb. The pad of Jim’s fingertip sears into his flesh. Every inch of his skin tingles. His instincts kick in before his brain does, and he wrenches himself away from Jim. Jim laughs as Sebastian pulls away, one knee up on the bed like he’s going to crawl in and _join_ Seb.

_Okay. Too far. We’re done here._

“You need to stop,” Sebastian says. He tells himself his voice is steady even though it’s probably not. “ _Stop.”_ Sebastian rolls over on his back and grabs Jim’s wrist, holding those branding fingers away from his skin. Jim’s face twists into a scowl.

“Let go of me. _Now._ ” As soon as Seb’s fingers unwrap from his wrist, Jim’s hand snaps out and grabs Seb by the bruise on his hip. “Good _boy,_ ” he purrs, pressing his fingers inwards. Sebastian sucks in a hissing breath.

Jim crawls up on the bed to fit his other hand over Sebastian’s shoulder, digging into another bruise. Jim holds Sebastian down like that, kneeling on the bed beside him, pinning him down with nails dug into his bruises. Sebastian’s body jerks, and he gasps – pain running like an electric current through his body, grounded by Jim’s hands.

Jim’s eyes on Seb’s face are wide and intent, lit up with a malicious glow like he’s no longer quite _human._ And of course, of _course,_ that’s when Seb has to start getting a hard on. Like the situation couldn’t get any worse. And the black pants he’s wearing are fucking _awful_ at concealing his cock, so Jim’s definitely going to fucking notice.

It’s not like Jim’s touch feels particularly _good –_ it doesn’t, it’s bloody painful – but it’s the heat of it, the adrenaline rush of those murdering hands on him. The same claustrophobic tightness in his lungs that he’d felt with Sherlock fitted over him, and fuck, Seb can’t breathe –

“Jesus, Stop, I'm –“

Jim laughs. “Not gay? Sebastian. Please.” He leans forward, putting more weight on his hands. Sebastian gasps, back arching, trying to draw both hips and shoulders simultaneously away from Jim – or maybe he’s rutting into the touch, it’s all gone a bit fuzzy. Jim keeps speaking in a low, promising purr, as he looms over Sebastian. “If I told you I was going to fuck you until you were crying, until the _pain_ was too much, you’d still be begging me to make you come.” His breath puffs hot on Sebastian’s ear, close and intimate. Sebastian shuts his eyes, bites his lip, and tries to hold on to his sanity. It’s not particularly effective. “If I told you I wanted you cut up, bruised, _bleeding,_ with your face shoved into the pillows – you wouldn’t refuse. You wouldn’t hesitate.” Jim’s tongue licks a slick line up to Sebastian’s earlobe, then he sucks the skin into his mouth and drags it over his teeth. Sebastian’s fists clench in the blankets. He should be fighting Jim off. He has to… “You may not be _gay,_ Sebastian. But you _do_ belong to me.”

Sebastian presses upwards, an animal urge to run and escape firing through his brain. Jim shoves him back down, hard enough that the pain makes Sebastian white out.

“Stop,” Sebastian chokes.

Jim laughs again, low and wild in his ear. “Do you want me to? Really? Would you rather I kiss you and cuddle you, and tell you I love you so huggy wuggy much?”

He bites Sebastian’s neck, over the jugular, his mouth hot and his teeth a jagged scrape of pain. Sebastian moans. His back arches even further up, pressing him tight against Jim’s chest. It shouldn’t be good. It shouldn’t be what he wants, but –

“Now now,” Jim chides, digging his fingernails into the bruises on Sebastian’s hip. A sick ache shoots down to Sebastian’s bone, and he snarls; but he backs down. Jim pitches his voice mocking and sing-songs, “Can’t go on without consent,” even though they both know consent’s not really a _thing_ here _._ “If you want me, darling, ask me nicely –“

Sebastian grits his teeth. He wants. He doesn’t want to _admit._ Fuck this stupid, pretty, psycho little –

 _Fuck._ “Please.”

“Sorry? Didn’t catch that.”

“Fuck you, Jim – _please!_ ”

Jim’s body fits down over his - a warm weight on his chest - and Jim’s leg shoves between his thighs. Sebastian’s spine arcs off the bed as Jim presses upwards, the firm muscle of his thigh rubbing against Seb’s cock. It sets off sparks in Sebastian’s brain, so intense they’re almost indistinguishable from pain. Jim murmurs something in Seb’s ear: he can’t catch what, because then Jim is sucking another bruise into Seb’s neck, gripping a handful of Seb’s hip, using it to rock him upwards. Sebastian groans, dropping his head back to expose more of his neck. There’s a golden heat building over his skin, creeping up his brainstem. He’s losing his _goddamn_ mind, basically.

Jim chuckles breathlessly. He lifts his head from Seb’s neck, thumb stroking circles on Seb’s hipbone. Seb meets his gaze; Jim’s eyes blown, so dark they’re all pupil. “That’s my boy,” he whispers, and seals his mouth over Sebastian’s.

Scale of one to ten, Sebastian couldn’t even tell you if Jim’s kisses are even _pleasurable._ He can’t seem to catch Jim’s rhythm; the kiss is sloppy, messy, teeth and tongues all mixed up and painful. Kissing him hurts more than it feels good. But it doesn’t matter. Jim reduces Sebastian to a moaning mess in about the same time it would take most people to even turn him on. Seb can’t think straight – the unpredictable crush of Jim’s mouth over his leaves his brain completely oxygenless. His arms are up off the bed and wrapped around Jim; fuck knows when that happened, but he’s got a death grip now, clutching tight to the bones of Jim’s back.

Jim’s knee rocks up between his leg and Sebastian ruts down on it like a horny teenager, pressing his cock against Jim’s thigh because – Jesus, at least it’s _friction._

“That good, pet?” Jim whispers, against Sebastian’s lips.

“ _Fuck,_ Jim –“ Sebastian pants breathlessly back. Jim laughs, soft and mocking.

“And you haven’t even undressed me yet…” he teases. He catches Seb’s bottom lip between his teeth and pulls it outwards, biting down until Seb can taste blood in his mouth. Sebastian growls, and starts shoving Jim’s shirt up his back.

If Jim was good before it’s nothing compared to the feeling of his bare skin on Sebastian’s when Seb gets his shirt over his head. They press together, chest to chest, and Jim’s skin is so hot Sebastian feels like it’s burning him. Seb fumbles with Jim’s trousers, next; he doesn’t get the button until the third try, because Jim’s mouth is moving on his neck and the wet slick suck of it is making him come apart. He shoves Jim’s trousers down to his knees, and Jim’s hands are tearing at his pants, and suddenly there’s no fabric between them –

Jim grabs Sebastian’s wrist and shoves his hand downwards. Sebastian wraps it around both their cocks on instinct and cries out; nearly losing his grip because fuck, oh _fuck,_ oh _Jesus fucking Christ._ Jim’s hand – the one that’s not on Sebastian’s hip – scrapes upwards over Sebastian’s chest, scraping vivid red lines through the bruises. He gets a fistful of Sebastian’s hair, pulling his head backwards, forcing him to arch further on the bed until he’s completely strung out beneath Jim. It doesn’t even hurt, and Sebastian wonders with what little brain-power he’s got left if this is what sensation overload is like.

His stomach is filled with a heavy, warm weight; a building pressure that makes him thrust hard against Jim’s cock. The pleasure teeters on the edge of unbearable, so vivid and real that it’s painful. Sebastian has never fucked anyone who has sex with the same wild-eyed, absolute abandon as Jim does. Jim throws his head back: fist clenched in Sebastian’s hair, eyes squeezed shut. His hips rock frantically into Sebastian’s hand, shuddering and jerking. Jim fucks with an utter and complete loss of self-control, like there’s nothing left in the world but Sebastian’s cock against his.

Hard not to be driven insane by that.

Sebastian grips them tighter, feeling his own callouses rub against the sensitive skin of his cock. He can’t breathe for the pressure building in his spine – he can’t even cry out. There’s something choking him, something that leaves him light headed and dizzy, limbs tingling like they’ve all gone asleep at once.

Jim snarls, burying his teeth in Sebastian’s shoulder so deep they grind against bone. His hips shudder. His fist in Sebastian’s hair tightens, until Sebastian thinks Jim is trying to scalp him with bare hands alone.

Then Jim’s body pulses, and there’s a low groan into Sebastian’s neck, and hot wet come splatters over their stomachs and Sebastian’s fist.

It’s enough. It’s too much. Sebastian is suffocating, burning, demolished by the heat and pain of Jim’s body against his. He thrusts upwards into his hand, cock sliding slick through Jim’s come, and gives himself over gratefully to mindless release.

++

Sebastian collapses back on the bed, breathing hard. Jim chuckles softly and presses a sloppy kiss against his chest. “You did so well,” he tells Sebastian dreamily. “Gold star, pet…”

Sebastian tries to growl, but he doesn’t have the strength or the breath in his lungs to do that. “Best casting couch I’ve ever been on,” he rumbles back, then shuts his eyes. “Maybe we could do a shoot together here when I’m healed… I bet GQ’d be interested…” His whole body is drifting on some golden cloud, muscles loose and relaxed. God, that’s good. He feels like Jim’s fucked all the anger and tension out of the air, leaving a peaceful stillness.

He should know better.

Almost as soon as Seb finishes relaxing, he feels Jim’s fingers dig into his bruises again. Sticky, half-dried blood smears over his skin.

“Ow! Jim, fuck – “

“ _What_ was that?” Jim snarls.

Seb opens his eyes to see Jim, alert and – judging from the look of it – in full psycho mode. There’s a vein in the whites of his eyes, picked out bright red. His face contorts in a snarl as he stares down at Sebastian, fingers white with the pressure he’s putting on Sebastian’s ribs. Sebastian tries to squirm away, and Jim just pushes harder. Pain sings down Sebastian’s nerve endings.

“Oi – what the fuck is wrong with you?“

“A _casting couch,_ Moran, is that what you think this is? _We should sell to GQ!_ ” Jim sings mockingly. His fingers dig in harder. “More fashion industry drivel?” There’s no trace now of that wild abandon, and the after-glow is sure as fuck gone. “So was it the model Sebastian I was fucking? The bland pretty boy? Is _that_ who got turned on by _begging_ me?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re –“

“The list of things you don’t know could form a _small moon.”_ Jim uses his grip on Sebastian’s side to shove him towards the side of the bed. Sebastian rolls over under the pressure, not even crying out with the pain – he’s too fucking confused to feel it. When pushing him is apparently too slow, Sebastian feels a cold foot plant on his spine and literally – _literally!_ – kick him out of bed.

_Who the fuck **literally** kicks people out of bed?!_

Luckily Seb gets his feet underneath him, and can stumble to standing by the bedside table without falling on his face. Not that it seems that was Jim’s plan. Sebastian could have eaten carpet, for all Jim cared.

“What – “ Sebastian blinks as he turns to look back at Jim. Utterly, completely, confused. Hadn’t they just been – not even a fucking _minute_ ago, things had been –

Jim, on the bed, looks like sin on his knees. His neck and shoulders are covered with the marks of Sebastian’s teeth. There’s a thin line of dried come on his stomach, his lips flushed from kissing. His eyes are absolutely cold.

“You know where the door is,” he drones, with no expression whatsoever. “Come back tomorrow for the photos. And if _one more sound_ comes out of your mouth, I’ll reconsider whether or not killing you would be a _waste._ ”

There’s a cold lurch in Sebastian’s heart – a dark hole that opens somewhere beneath his sternum. He opens, and then shuts his mouth. What can he do? Jim doesn’t seem to make idle threats.

He stands there awkwardly for a moment, naked, clenching and unclenching his hand at his side. He wants to swear at Jim. He wants to drag Jim out of bed and punch his lights out, shouting, _you don’t make any fucking sense._ He wants to replay the last ten minutes, make them better, never say that _stupid_ fucking line about GQ.

But he can’t.

Seb takes one last look at those bottomless black eyes, and leaves.

++

“Jim...”

”You know where to go.”

“About last time –“

“Aw. Were your _feelings_ hurt? Were you hoping we’d run away together, in love? Get on the couch, Moran.”

“Fine. Fuck you.”

Jim muscles Seb around until he's satisfied Seb’s pose is perfectly matched to the before pictures. Sebastian says silent, letting Jim bend and push him like he’s a ken doll. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Whatever’s going on between them is fucked-up and broken, and it’s probably going to kill him.

Sebastian tells himself he’s done with it; he’ll do the shots and finish the job, then he’ll walk away. Never see Jim Moriarty again. The resolution lasts all of two seconds. Then Jim’s hand cups his face again.

Sebastian looks up into Jim’s eyes, and there it is – that devouring, magnetic darkness, pulling him in.

“Oh, pet,” Jim sighs, “Don’t pout. It’s simple, really. All you have to do is let go. Stop pretending.” His thumb strokes across Sebastian’s cheekbone. “The model _bores_ me. But the killer… I will have you, pet. My dog on a leash... You just have to _ask,_ and it's yours.”

Sebastian shuts his eyes. He swallows, hard. His throat feels tight, his skin clammy. Even the tips of his fingers seem cold, like Jim’s cutting off his circulation.

He’s not a killer, anymore. He left it behind. He came home from the war, he made a normal life, he –

God help him.

Seb trembles underneath Moriarty’s touch. “ _Please,_ ” he says; his voice so rough he doesn’t even know if Jim will hear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta says I should let you know who Twiggy is if you didn't get that reference. I think she's nutters because you're a bunch of hip young folks and of COURSE you're up to date with fashion history, right? [ No need to put this here, then. ](http://theredlist.com/media/database/muses/icon/fashion/twiggy/039_twiggy_theredlist.jpg)
> 
> Also there's a nod in there to a fic I love... see if you can spot it. [ Pretty Psycho Boy ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1361680), OBVS.


	5. Chapter 5

So he said please. Buried his humiliation and begged, _begged,_ that cocky little shit to have him. So that should have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Jim’s fingers slid out from Sebastian’s chin and he took the follow up shots – wham, bam, _I’ll call if it crosses my mind._

Then he left town the next morning.

Seb sees the news in _The Sun,_ of all places, while he’s waiting in line to buy smokes. It feels like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice-water over his head. Seb’s stuck there, under the ugly florescent lights, staring at the headline: _Exclusive Photos of Fashion’s Most Famous Recluse – Jim Moriarty’s Picture-Perfect Vacation!_ Underneath there’s a photo of Jim: taken at Heathrow customs, probably as paparazzi jumped out of the crowd. Jim’s wearing a massive coat with a turned up collar, and the photo has caught in the act of looking up; his brow just beginning to knit. Anyone else would say he was already frowning, but Seb’s _seen_ Jim’s scowl before; the expression in the photograph isn’teven close.

The only thing hostile in the photo is Jim's eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and for once, Seb thinks popular opinion might be right. Jim’s eyes are dead; so absolutely frozen black that the rest of his expression could be mistaken for coldness. _Let’s say I’m not photogenic, shall we,_ Jim had said, leaning on the newel post. Maybe because when you photograph someone without a soul, what’s caught is just horrible emptiness.

“Excuuuuse me,” the girl at the till drawls, making Seb jump. She stabs a finger at the magazine. “You want that? This isn’t a library.”

Seb rips himself away from Jim’s black-within-black eyes. “No,” he says roughly, and forces himself not to think twice about the answer.

++

Seb waits a week. Okay, maybe it’s a week and a half. Maybe he still thinks Jim will call by the end of the second week.

Fine. It's two weeks, then.

He butts his cigarettes on the couch and tosses the filters at an empty wine box, until the pile spills over the floor. Eventually, it gets through his thick skull. Jim Moriarty – talented, brilliant, fascinating, _changeable_ Jim – he’s done with Seb.

He’s gone.

Sebastian lies sprawled out on his back in the middle of the room, with the windows shoved up to let a dead breeze through. He’s covered in a thin film of his own rank sweat, and the razor-sharp definition of his hipbones is getting a little _scary._ Cigarettes and cheap wine do not a diet make. Seb’d go begging, but – well, as much as Seb _can_ humiliate himself to survive, he doesn’t really _like_ that shit. Getting your meals at the shelter with the rest of the PTSD candidates is a great fucking way to remember that you’re human fucking trash.

The ceiling fan’s going full speed, wearing at its engine, but there isn’t much air in the room. Seb can barely see the flicking shadow of the blades; it’s somewhere between morning and dawn, in the small hours when it’s too late to get back to sleep and too early to get up. Without turning his head to look at what he’s doing, Sebastian feels around the bedside table for his pack of cigarettes.

There’s a narrow slice of pain as an abandoned straight-razor cuts into his searching fingers. Sebastian curses and yanks his hand back, popping his finger into his mouth. The blood on his tongue is salt and iron, and tastes of Jim.

God, he knows what Jim tastes like.

Sebastian rubs his eyelid with his fingers, grinding his tear ducts into his sockets. _You’re a fucking lame excuse for the best of the best,_ he tells himself. _Feels like your dishonorable all over again, doesn’t it? Never good enough, that’s you._

_Alright. Enough of that crap. Get moving._

Whatever’s left of Seb’s motivation is a dull, self-loathing knot in his stomach. It’s not that he wants to keep going. It’s just that he refuses to let the world win. Refuses to stay like this; lying in bed, hurting himself because he’s too much of a fucking pig to take care of his body.

 _So you got dumped, Moran,_ he tells himself, _so you got kissed and dismissed. This isn’t you getting told never to pick up a rifle again. This isn’t setting down in London knowing you’ll never see tigers again._

_This isn’t the end of your life; that’s already happened. This is a psychotic photographer, with a chip on his shoulder and no intention of keeping you around._

Sebastian takes a deep breath. He rolls out of bed.

He calls Tammy.

++

She picks up on the first ring like she’s been expecting the phone, even though god only knows what time it is. “Hey-lo,” she says, “I see lover-boy found himself a beach and didn’t take you. We done acting like a teenager, Moran? We ready to do some work?”

Seb winces. With an effort, he doesn’t reach for the smokes again, but that’s only because there’s a razor still in the way and his fingers hurt. “Tam, I’m… I’m really sorry about…”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” she says darkly. He can hear the click of keys as she types on the other end of the phone line. The phone must be tucked up between her ear and her shoulder, freeing her hands. Working till dawn, that’s Tammy. Her makeup’s probably perfect too, _that bitch._

“I’ll make it up to you,” Seb tries. He rolls over onto his side on the mattress and gingerly picks up his smokes over the razor. His cut finger leaves a smudge of blood on the plastic of the pack.

Tammy laughs, crackling in his cell phone speaker. “Oh! You _will,_ will you? Great. Wonderful. _How,_ exactly, are you going to make up _cancelling_ a month’s worth of appointments? _Style_ is furious. The model’s union has just straight up stopped calling. And _god,_ what you’ve done to your reputation, I wouldn’t do to a dead dog…”

“You can fix it, Tam, can’t you?” Sebastian mumbles hopefully, tucking a smoke between his lips and reaching for the lighter. “You’re a wizard, with this stuff…”

“That _better_ not be a fucking cigarette in your mouth, asshole,” Tammy says, but there’s no bite in her voice. She sighs. The sound is mangled by static, but Seb recognizes it anyways. _Victory._ “I got a call from _Vogue,_ ” she admits, “God knows _why_ I told them you could do a shoot for the cover, seeing as you were AWOL, but I did.”

A moment of silence stretches between them. Sebastian lights his cigarette and takes a long drag.

“ _Vogue_ ,” he says finally, exhaling. It’s success. It’s everything a model wants. The cover of _Vogue_ – God, he should care. He should feel something other than empty.

Mistaking his silence for shock, Tammy gloats. “But you’re my _bitch_ for this, Moran, you understand?”

“Yeah,” he says belatedly, “Yeah. Tammy, there’s just one other thing…”

++

“Make-up,” Tammy decides firmly, without allowing herself the weakness of being surprised, “The same stuff we use to cover your scars. Now put your shirt back on. No one needs to know about that crap.”

Seb’s chest aches as she turns away from him. He doesn’t want to feel ashamed of his bruises. Of Jim. “Tam…”

She rounds on him, shiny hair flying out in a perfect fan. “I’m sticking my goddamn _neck on the line_ already, Moran,” she says, stabbing a finger at his chest. “ _You_ got Vogue and that is the _only reason_ I am taking you back on. God help me, Sebastian, I _will_ make you a model, if it _kills_ me.” He starts to speak and she cuts him off. “This agency has you contracted. Three years. If you want to spend that walking CoCo’s runway and _not_ the cover of _Twink Weekly_ , you do what _I_ say. Understand?”

Sebastian nods dumbly. She pulls herself back and looks him over, shaking her head in what he supposes is probably disgust.

“God, Seb,” she says finally, “You were going to _be_ something. What the hell happened to you?”

 _Jim,_ he thinks, but he doesn’t say anything.

++

It shouldn’t even matter. It _doesn’t_ matter, for chrissakes. Who the hell is Jim Moriarty, anyways? Industry legend, fourteen shoots a blah blah blah. Sebastian’s heard it all a million times before. If there’s one thing the fashion industry has too many of, it’s industry legends. Take the building. Sebastian’s shooting for _Vogue_ in Baker Street Studios; home of John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, fashion’s _grand dame_ Martha-Louise Hudson, willowy pale Molly Hooper from the Sear’s catalogue… the list goes on and on.

It’s a small brick building, disingenuously homey. Seb expected the home of fashions best and brightest to be a bit more imposing. The cream trim and white shutters don’t exactly account for the twist of dread that corkscrews down through his chest; it could be a residential building, for chrissakes. Still, Tammy’s been parked with her car idling for a good five minutes now, and Seb doesn’t feel a fucking inch closer to getting out.

She does him the favour of sitting in silence.

Seb flips the shade down on the passenger-side to look at himself in the mirror. He runs a hand through his hair – jarhead-short now, thanks to Tammy’s trusty shaving kit. She’d taken one look at the clumped blood still left over from Jim’s mess and declared – firmly – _we’re going back to the Harvard Clip._ Now, in the mirror, Seb’s having flashbacks. His hair is short enough to make him feel like he’s sixteen and heading to basic again. Even with his scars covered, he doesn’t look much different than he had as a soldier. His thick frame of liner can’t hide that Seb’s eyes went dead a long time ago. _Not to mention the giant fucking bags, Christ._

Seb scowls at himself.

“I’ve got concealer,” Tammy says gently. When he looks over she’s flawless as always, but there’s a twist to her mouth like she’s eaten something sour. “You look fine, Seb,” she tells him. Tammy hasn’t felt the need to reassure Seb about his looks since his first job, but whatever. Maybe he looks like he needs the encouragement.

“I look like trash,” Seb replies, and goes back to the mirror.

“You gotta face you can use,” she reminds him. Old joke. Tammy’d swept into Veteran Affairs during Seb’s third week back in London. _I come once a month to check on the boys,_ she told him, _I can usually make a name for anybody that hasn’t gone soft from living home yet. But you, **you,** you gotta face I can use._

Tammy gives him a weak smile and Seb smiles tightly back. Her phone is buzzing, but she’s ignoring it. “You’re late,” she says.

“Yeah.”

Sebastian shoves the car door without wasting any more time diddling. Tammy still hasn’t gone for her phone. As he swings his boots to the curb and stands, she leans over the seats to peer up at him.

“Seb – “

“I won’t fuck it up,” he interrupts roughly, before she can make things worse. He doesn’t dare look back to see her pitying him.

Seb straightens his shoulders, runs a hand over his brutalized hair, and walks in Baker Street’s door without knocking.

++

“Hullo,” John blinks up at Seb from a light-table across the darkened room. With the only light coming from below, under-lit wrinkles on John’s face make him look more like a dell’arte mask than a man. “They’re in there, I think,” he says, pointing towards the side door with a scalpel. Sebastian jumps half the way to the fucking rafters at the sight of the blade: firing on two cylinders, and both of them combat instinct. He doesn’t know if John manages to catch the reaction, but he really _hopes_ not. John is the sort of sanctimonious prick who would ask Seb – acting real concerned – if he’s _doing alright._

Luckily John’s too distracted by his work; he bends back over the table, and small shreds of shiny paper litter the floor between his feet. Seb realizes John’s fixing photos the old-fashioned way – God knows why, it’s fuck-awful work. Boring and finicky and impossibly difficult to _fix_ once you fuck up. John must have steady hands. In the yellow light, the steel handle of the blade he’s holding sparkles like a gemstone.

He doesn’t look at all like he’s ready to shoot pictures today. Especially not of Seb. Sebastian hesitates. John shows no sign of getting up. Seb rubs the dead skin on his lower lip over his teeth, debating the question that’s dancing around his brain. He could just walk through the door and _see_ who’s waiting, after all –

John glances upwards. Seeing Sebastian still waiting, a brief frown knots his brow. He coughs politely, as if to remind Seb that he has to _move_ at some point.

Seb takes a deep breath and tells himself not to be such a pussy. “…They?”

John’s frown deepens. “Sherlock and your photographer. Did you not – ”

“I thought you were – “

“No.” John laughs. “No. You’re just borrowing Sherlock.” John laughs, warm and sincere. “After the work you and he did with Spider Studios– Sherlock’s been up one side of me and down the other.” John’s expression turns fondly exasperated. “He always has a bit of a snit when Jim ends up getting the better of him.”

Sebastian’s mouth is dry and his tongue feels swollen. He doesn’t know how he’s going to manage to reply to that. _The work we did – they might have asked for the same photographer –_ Sebastian swallows, hard, and wipes his sweaty hands on his skin-tight jeans.

John gestures with the knife again, urging Sebastian on, the shadow of it playing over his friendly face. “Go on, then. I’ll be out here if Sherlock gets stroppy. Just send him round and I’ll keep him out of your hair, yeah?”

Sebastian nods mutely. His nerves seem to thrum, pulling like elastic bands about to snap under his skin. The side door John keeps pointing to looms over him, getting bigger and darker every time Sebastian blinks; like he’s high on ketamine, or hasn’t slept for a weak.

He takes a shallow breath, holds it for a three count, lets it out for five. The first step towards the door – well, Seb would be lying if it didn’t feel like walking for the gallows _._ Too bad he can’t pussy out; not with John watching politely at the light table. Sebastian sets one foot in front of the other, slowly and carefully, feeling like he’s floating over the floor.

And then there’s the door knob, smooth under his grip, still warm from whoever turned it last.

_If he –_

_Don’t fucking think about it, Moran._

Seb turns the knob. Sets his shoulders. Pushes the cheap plywood door inwards, into the heart of Baker Street Studios. He tries to pretend he’s not holding his breath, but Seb’s never been the best at lying to himself. And he’s practically suffocating.

With Seb’s eyes are adjusted to darkness, the studio lights are blinding. Sebastian has to squint, rubbing his eyes with a hand as the thousand watt lights press against the opening door.

“You’re _late,_ ” Sherlock grumbles, with a petulant sniff of distaste. Sebastian gives his eyelids one last rub and blinks blearily at the bright room in front of him. Sherlock is standing with his arms crossed between Sebastian and the set; head tilted so he can stare down his nose. His silhouette is caught dead center in one of the huge reflector umbrellas for the HMI lights. The backlighting makes him look skeletal and skinnier than a crack addict after Welfare Wednesday.

“Now, now, Holmes… Don’t _scare_ the poor thing. We do have to take pictures of him.”

Soft, promising purr, like a hooker closing a sale. Unfortunately the _wrong_ promising purr. Familiar – but feminine, smooth and sharp as fine whiskey. Seb turns, and Irene Adler gives him a languid smile from her perch on a couch in the back of the room. She looks just as good here as she did in the gallery lights of Spider Studios: dark hair, dark eyes, skin so pale and flawless it aches to be bruised.

“I thought you might be more comfortable at Baker Street, dear. My own spaces are a bit… darker.”

Sebastian tries hard not to think where he’s heard that before, and bites his tongue so hard he nearly loses it. “Kind of you.”

“Wasn’t it?” Irene hasn’t looked away from him. Her fingers stroke small circles on the bare skin of her thigh, a continuous, sensuous motion.

“I didn’t know you shot as well as modelling,” he says, to distract himself.

“I don’t,” she replies smoothly, then lifts a hand and gestures at Sherlock. Seb has to admire the way she indicates him without coming near to anything that could be described as a _point._ Seb has always characterized women in the fashion industry as one of three things; an Attack Dog, a Princess, or a Trainwreck. Irene is a Princess, double-under line, bolded. She’s got all the prerequisites; impeccable manners, polished so hard they shine, not a hair out of place, and a better-than-you smirk. Seb wants badly to kick her when she says, “But Sherlock does.”

 _Ah, fuck._ On the list of a million and one fucking things Sebastian _did not_ want to hear –

He drags his gaze from Irene to Sherlock. Sherlock raises a sculpted eyebrow. “Have a problem with that?”

Something John said clicks into place. “You just want to prove you can shoot me better than Jim can,” Sebastian concludes, with a certain degree of amazement. They’re not fucking _children,_ after all. And holy shit, is that ever immature. Sherlock glares at him.

“Anything Jim can do, Sherlock can do better,” Irene agrees, rising from her chair in a slow fluid motion like a dancer. “You and I are just pawns, love.”

 _You, darling,_ Jim says, in Seb’s ear, _Are my own personal Titanic._

Irene holds out her hand. “Well?” she asks, “Shall we?”

Seb doesn’t take the offered hand; just pushes forward, to the set. It’s nothing like the stark leather couch in Spider Studios; the small area boxed off for shooting in is cluttered within an inch of its life. You shoved anymore mirrors, ornate knick-knacks, or animal bones in, Sebastian’s pretty sure something would implode. There are even intricate carvings in the false cove moldings. There’s a fireplace – complete with human skull and masonic imagery etched into the mantle – and a single chair, straight-backed and cushioned with thick, embroidered velvet. Its legs sink an easy two inches into the carpet. The whole set has the atmosphere of a hunting lodge for Victorian serial killers.

“You’ll need to get changed,” Sherlock says. He shoves a garment bag at Sebastian. “Adler –“

“Already gone,” Irene says mildly, and pads barefoot out of the room. The door shuts behind her with a click. Sebastian can’t resist staring, at the way her hips sway within her tight skirt.

“Separate changing rooms for female models,” Sherlock sniffs, “ _Ridiculous…_ ” He jams the garment bag against Sebastian’s chest again. “Well, hurry up. They’re not paying me to _talk_ to you, _thankfully…_ ”

Belatedly, Seb takes the bag from him. Sherlock puts a hand on his back and steers him towards the corner, where there’s hanging racks and hooks set up for clothing. The garment bag in Sebastian’s arms feels disturbingly light.

++

“ _Wonderful,_ ” Sebastian growls when he’s changed, looking down at himself. “And what goes over it?”

“A thin layer of Photoshop, I assume,” Sherlock snaps, from where he’s finking with the lighting. A set with that many mirrors has to be _evil_ to light perfectly, and Sebastian can’t help the warm and comfortable feeling he gets watching Sherlock curse over it. Unlikeable git. “Incidentally, if your makeup turns out orange under my lights, I _will_ cancel our contract – “

“Don’t be grumpy, dear,” Irene interrupts, “He looks absolutely edible.”

“ _Back to the matter at hand,_ ” Sebastian says loudly over both of them, “Somehow I’m not buying that a jockstrap, collar, and boots is a complete outfit. Sounds like something’s fucking missing here. Pants, maybe. My _fucking dignity_.”

“No…” Sherlock comments thoughtfully, “I rather think you lost that a long time ago. Shame.”

Sebastian crosses his arms over his chest, trying not to think about a sudden, urgent need to adjust the way his cock is sitting in the jock-strap. Now is _not_ the time.

“I do have a no-nudes policy.”

“And this isn’t nudes, _funny…_ ”

“Boys,” Irene interrupts. She holds up a long, thin strip of leather, a glint of metal at the top – catch, Sebastian realizes belatedly, it’s a fucking _leash._ “Are we all done arguing now?”

If he wasn’t so fucking angry, Sebastian could appreciate what she’s wearing; a mock eighteenth century riding habit, gold buttons done up to the hollow of her slender throat. The dress is the exact shade of blood from a lung injury. With her hands in elegant white gloves and her feet in shining black boots, there isn’t an inch of Irene Adler’s skin showing below her neck. But somehow – between the way the dress hugs her slim waist and the leash held loosely in her left hand – she still manages to look like a dominatrix.

“I haven’t agreed to this yet,” Seb insists. Irene steps forward and her skirts whisper; swaying with the motion of her hips. She stops in front of Sebastian, so close he could lean down and kiss her if he wanted to – not that he’s thinking about that, mind. Her eyebrows arch, lips curving upwards at the corners so slightly it shouldn’t count as a smile. Seb meets her eyes challengingly, daring her to make something of his refusal.

Irene reaches forward and places a hand on his chest. The silk of her gloves is flawlessly smooth and soft, and Seb can feel the warmth of her hands between it. He doesn’t look down; just keeps staring into her eyes.

So he misses the other hand she raises. Misses the _click_ as she fits the leash onto his collar. Sebastian takes a quick, hissing breath.

“I know it isn’t quite Jim,” Irene says, half-teasing, “But it might be fun anyways. Play along – “

“And you’ll give me a treat afterwards?”

Irene’s smile deepens, and Sebastian’s heart decides to try out a new rhythm for a bit. “Maybe I will,” she says. There’s a disgusted sound behind them, from Sherlock, but Seb doesn’t deign to look at him. Irene tilts her chin back, hand still resting lightly on Seb’s chest. “Well?” she asks. “Shall we?”

Sebastian searches her eyes, not quite sure what he’s looking for; some hint of a deeper darkness, maybe. Some sign that she’s got the same thing inside her that Jim does.

Useless, of course. There isn’t anyone like Jim in the whole world. But still…

“…Could be fun,” he agrees, finally.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Both of them ignore the gagging noises Sherlock makes behind them. Irene leads Sebastian by the collar onto the set, and settles into the chair with a rustle of skirts. The leash is short enough that Sebastian is pulled downwards, forced to either kneel at her feet or bend in an awkward bow. He opts for kneeling.

Irene bestows a smile on him, and looks up at Sherlock. “How do you want me, sexy?” she asks. Sherlock looks at them both intently, then makes an impatient, flippant gesture.

“I’m sure you can work out what to do with him. Your area of expertise, isn’t it?” his tone is off-hand and cutting.

“Why yes,” Irene replies, refusing to rise to the bait, “I believe it is.” She tugs lightly on the leash and Seb shifts forward on his knees, drawing closer to her. He tries not to feel the humiliation of it; nearly-naked and leashed at her feet like a dog. He also tries not to feel the prickle as the hair on the back of his neck rises, and the warm flush that spreads down his chest; the heat that has nothing to do with the studio lights.

Obviously Seb isn’t thinking he might enjoy this. And he _definitely_ isn’t wondering what Jim would look like in that chair, holding that leash. He definitely isn’t picturing Jim smiling down at him the way Irene is, full of secrets and bad ideas…

When Seb gets a moment he really needs to think about his life choices.

“Do try to look like you’re not about to start _drooling,_ ” Sherlock snaps. Sebastian tries to look at him, but with the lights going full blast he can’t see anything except darkness off the set. Irene leans over and turns his head back to her with a gentle finger under his chin.

“Mind wandering?” she asks, fake-sweet like aspartame.

“Course not,” Seb replies roughly. Irene’s finger presses under his chin and he lets her tilt his head up, until he has to look down his nose at her. Maybe it’s supposed to make him feel exposed, but after Jim – well, let’s just say Sebastian isn’t expecting anyone else in the fashion industry to go for the throat the way Jim did.

“Less porn,” Sherlock snaps, “More defiance. Do you always find it difficult to control yourself, Moran, or am I just unlucky?”

Seb strongly resists the urge to tell him to get fucked. “Sex sells,” he grits out through his teeth.

“Mmm. But they’re supposed to want to have sex with _you,_ not fear that you’re on the edge of climaxing in your trousers.”

Sebastian growls, and starts to turn; with a vague thought of getting up and punching some manners into Sherlock’s mouth. He gets as far as twisting his torso around before a hard yank on his collar pulls him back, hands and knees in front of Irene. She lifts a booted foot, puts it on his shoulder, grinds her heel into his collarbone.

Sebastian snarls, resisting the urge to grunt in pain.

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock says abruptly. “Acceptable. Irene – “

“Of course,” she replies, picking up what Sherlock wants immediately. Either there’s a lot more geniuses around then Sebastian thought, or he’s dumber than he’s considered before. Or both. Sherlock and Jim and Irene might as well be _telepathic._

Irene pulls hard on the leash. Her boot stays on Seb’s shoulder, holding him firmly in place. He’s forced to strain his neck awkwardly against the collar to take pressure off his collar bone, the leather biting into the skin of his neck. Sherlock’s camera’s clicks are cool and controlled: snapping off at a regular rhythm. The sound is so perfectly predictable that it fades into the background noise. If he let himself, Seb could forget that Sherlock’s there at all.

Might be easy, even, to focus on the rough texture of the carpet underneath his knees. The rasp of the leather over his neck. Irene’s boot, digging in to his sensitive skin, painful and goading. Even her expression is distraction enough; Irene’s watching Seb like he’s the only thing in the world, like all her considerable intellect and talent is focused on mastering him.

 _Jim would never focus on you this way,_ a treacherous voice whispers in the back of Sebastian’s head, _he wouldn’t **need** all of himself to master you…_

“ _Wrong,_ ” Sherlock interrupts Sebastian’s train of thought, exasperated, “I don’t want you looking like you’re _pining._ I did say defiant, didn’t I? My god, what it takes to get you people to listen. Suppose that’s what they get for building an industry around _looks_ rather than _brains…_ ”

Sebastian’s face instantly falls back into what can only be described as a grimace. It’d be a lot easier to ignore Sherlock if he didn’t insist on being a prat at that sort of volume.

“Personally,” Irene says, softly enough that Sebastian’s reasonably sure the words are meant for his ears alone, “I’d _love_ to know what you were thinking of.”

“Had a good weekend,” Sebastian lies back. She leans back in the chair to watch him, skirts spreading out around her thighs. He can see a thin sliver of white sock between her boot and the hem of her skirt; silk like her gloves. For some reason, it’s tantalizing; Sebastian doesn’t know if he likes the dress or if he just wants to rip her out of it. Watch all the perfect, gleaming gold buttons go bouncing off over the floor.

“ _Wrong!_ ” Sherlock bellows again. “Are you _really_ incapable of thinking through your brain instead of your cock _,_ Moran?”

Irene huffs through her nose, recognizing the start of a pointless fight when she hears one. Sebastian twists on his knees, fighting the pull of the leash, trying to spot Sherlock against the blinding lights.

“Maybe you don’t know what the _point_ of a leash is,” Sebastian snarls into the darkness, unable to see Sherlock at all, “But I don’t think I’m meant to be _angry_ with her.”

Seb just won’t mention that the way his thoughts are sliding to baser urges isn’t intentional at all. He won’t mention that yeah, even if he tried, he might have trouble focusing on something other than sex.

Because that warm flush in his chest, that aching feeling under his skin… it hasn’t gone away. Sure, Seb knows Irene’s not really what he wants. And sleeping with her might be, all things considered, a fucking awful idea. But Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, she’s a hell of a woman, and Seb is supposedto be straight.

 _Is_ straight. Generally.

Sherlock snorts, face hidden by the bright stage lights. Sebastian feels a strong and incredibly childish urge to huff right back.

“Do you mind if I give it a go?” Irene asks them, mildly, “By all means boys, fight if you must. But this _is_ my area of expertise.”

Judging by his sniff, Sherlock is deeply offended. “If you _must._ ”

“You might want to – “

“Sebastian.” Irene’s tone is suddenly a whole lot more interesting. Sharp, crisp, and not gentle in any sense of the word, it sets Sebastian shivering scalp to toenails. He turns slowly, giving his attention back to her.

She tilts her head to the side, looking at him consideringly. From the look of her eyelashes, sweeping gently down to cover her irises as she gives Sebastian a slow once over, she’s never needed mascara. The grip she’s got on the leash is firm; not quite pulling, not yet. Sebastian breathes in and out slowly, grounding himself.

Her foot slides down a few inches on his shoulder, rough soul scraping over his skin. He makes a face.

“Don’t like that?”

“Uncomfortable.”

“ _Baby._ ” Cruel, mocking, contemptuous. Sebastian snaps to attention – as much as he can, on his knees and leashed. He reaches up to shove her foot off his shoulder, tensing his muscles to stand.

“No,” Irene says, mildly.

“Stop fucking around, then,” Seb snaps back, settling into his place on the carpet again. She just smiles; lips curving around a patronizing secret.

He did, after all, do as she ordered. Seb stiffens.

The camera clicks.

“Hm,” Sherlock says, begrudgingly, “That will do.”

“Yes,” Irene says, tongue flicking out to wet her lips, “I rather think he will…”

++

She meets Sebastian outside the studio afterwards, heels clicking across the tarmac as he waits for a cab.

“Take me home,” she tells him.

She’s wearing a black racer-back and jeans so tight she must paint them on. He doesn’t even debate saying no.

++

The door of Seb’s apartment is barely shut behind them when Irene puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him towards the bed. _Hell with that,_ Seb thinks. He reaches out and snags her wrist as he steps back, pulling her after him. Irene’s not wearing a bra. As Sebastian crushes her against his chest, her wrist is pinned between the soft flesh of her breasts. Seb grins to himself. He wraps his arm around her waist, trapping her.

She lifts her chin to meet his eyes. There isn’t an inch of submission in her expression; instead, her dark eyes flash in ferocious curiosity, fierce and inviting. Her full lips are parted, crimson as sin and twice as tempting. Christ, if he’d never met Jim, Sebastian could _lose_ himself in this woman. He tightens his grip on her wrist until he knows it must hurt, and she just smiles: the gleaming bones of her teeth visible and glistening. Sebastian’s getting hard altogether too fast, blood rushing to his cock so quick it leaves his head dizzy. Irene sways against Sebastian’s hips, twisting her body sinuously into him like a snake.

“Is that how you like it, darling?” she murmurs, her unbelievably long eyelashes sweeping down like paintbrushes over her stark cheekbones. “Is it violence for you, Mister Moran? You thought it was _sexy_ , didn’t you, my work – and you wanted _more…_ ”

Seb’d forgotten she had a free hand. He remembers in a hurry when it trails around his thigh to stroke up the inside of his leg towards his ass. The touch of her fingertips is like ice on a sunburn, and Sebastian growls warningly. Far from retreating, Irene presses herself closer.

She has to crane her neck back to whisper against his lips, “I don’t mind.”

She’s so close Seb can practically taste her. The great mass of her unbound hair streams down her back, over the bare bones of her spine, to the soft curve of her ass. Seb can feel it brush against the back of his knuckles, like feathers. The heat of her breath ghosts over his lips. His cock strains against his skinny jeans, screaming at the tight fabric as Irene writhes forward again.

“You can be rough with me,” she tells him, sibilant and dangerous. “And I will be rough with _you._ ” Only a dominatrix could dirty talk like a fucking _rattlesnake._ Seb can feel the heat of her skin through the thin, fragile fabric of her silk shirt. She licks her lips, and they’re so close to touching he can taste the wetness of her tongue. Her fingers press in between Sebastian’s legs, stroking a hard line over his asshole like she intends to finger him.

 _Not gay,_ Seb thinks, and, _Jim,_ and he can’t help the groan that breaks like a hollow wave against the scarlet curve of Irene’s lips. He digs his fingernails into her back, into the full curve of her hips, and pulls her closer – jamming his cock against her.

She laughs breathlessly, rises on her tiptoes, and closes the distance between their lips. Sebastian can taste her lipstick; a thin film separating them until her mouth opens and her tongue darts out. Then there’s only the taste of her, the heat of her mouth. She presses closer to him, wrapping herself tight to his chest until there scarcely seems room to breathe. Sebastian bites down on her lip: not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to drag a soft sound from the back of her throat, not quite gasp and not quite whimper.

When she pulls back she’s got flesh-coloured makeup smeared on her lips and her cheek. Sebastian freezes. _Oh shit –_

“Ah,” Irene says, smiling, a fierce interest sparking in her eyes. “So _that’s_ what Jim saw in you. How extensive?”

“Very,” Seb admits begrudgingly. Irene’s made no move to pull away, not yet, and he’s not sure whether or not that’s a good thing.

“Hm.” Irene’s face goes thoughtful, and within a hair’s breadth of a second, determined. She’s made up her mind. She twists out of Sebastian’s grip with an ease and grace that’s almost spooky, and points at the bathroom. “Take the make-up off. All of it.”

When Seb hesitates, she adds, “You are _not_ getting concealer all over me, darling. And I am not letting you keep your shirt on. Off you go.” Her foot taps. Her finger points unwaveringly at the bathroom.

Seb takes a deep breath.

“Your funeral,” he says darkly.

++

When he comes back, shirtless, scars stark and harsh against his skin, he half expects Irene to grab her things and walk out. Instead her eyes go heavy-lidded, eyelashes hiding her pupils as she traces the scars down his body.

“Oh yes,” she murmurs, “He must have _loved_ you…” She reaches out and touches one of his bruises, heartbreakingly gentle. "Yes. I see he did."

Seb tries not to flinch at that. He twists his neck out to the side to crack it – Jim’s gesture, but let’s not think about that – and comes to stand in front of her, bare-chested for the second time that day. He places his hands on her hips and she reaches up to twine her arms around his neck, fingers playing with a stray bit of hair at the base of his skull.

“I must say I miss the collar,” Irene remarks thoughtfully, tilting her head back to look up at him. The movement bares her throat, making her tendons stand out all the way down to her collarbones. “You _did_ do it justice…”

“I’d prefer it on you,” Seb replies.

Irene smiles. “You think you would, but you’re wrong,” she tells him.

Seb makes a considered decision to ignore that. He lets his hands slide over her body, following the curve of her rib cage to her back. Then down her spine, over her ass, mimicking the grip she had on him earlier. His fingers press between her legs and her breath starts to pick up, the corner of her lips sticking together briefly as they part.

“Don’t think I want to argue, right now,” Sebastian tells her. He leans down, letting his breath ghost over her exposed throat.

“No – “ Irene agrees, voice breathy. Her touch on the back of Sebastian’s head turns into a fistful of Seb’s hair. She grips tight, sending tiny pricks of pain down his spine.

“Good,” he says, and bites down over her jugular. He rubs his fingers up between her legs as he does, pressing hard, and she cries out. Her spine curves backwards as she rocks her hips forward into his fingers. With his teeth buried in her neck Sebastian can hear her breath start to go heavy in his ear. She cuts off each gasp with the next, stuttering, her breasts pushing against his chest as she pants. Sebastian can’t help a groan. He rips himself away from her – her fingers trailing slackly through his hair – and grabs for the hem of her shirt.

She helps Seb get it over her head, reaching back for him the second she tosses it to the side like her palms are hungry for his skin. Her hair, mussed and free, tumbles over her shoulders in thick, rumpled curls. The skin over her chest is like cream, the line of her breastbone visible between her small breasts. Sebastian bends his head. He leaves a bruise on the inside curve of her breast, licks his way over to her nipple.

She tosses her head back, clutching at his shoulders as he sucks her nipple in over his teeth, just a bare scrape before his tongue flicks over it. He can hear the soft hiss of air over her teeth as she gasps. He lets his mouth trail lower, falling to his knees as he slides down her stomach to her narrow hips. When he looks up, lips brushing against the button of her skin tight black jeans, she meets his eyes and smiles.

Her hands slide back in his hair and tug gently. He licks his lips, and she shakes her head at him, her mocking smile ruined by the quick pace of her breath. Sebastian grins. He leans forward, and undoes her jeans with his teeth, just to be melodramatic. She laughs, breathless, choking it off with a moan as he presses his fingers up between her legs.

The fabric of her jeans is hot to the touch, and when Sebastian peels them off her hips her black lace panties are soaked through. Irene’s knees shake, just slightly, but she hides it well. The smell of her goes straight through Seb’s brain, short circuiting some things he suspects might be important.

“Hurry up,” Irene breathes, throaty and rough. One of her hands is so tight in Sebastian’s hair he suspects he might lose a few strands. He trails his fingernails up her bare thigh and she shifts her stance, spreading her legs wider. Her skin is flawless, warm, and just slightly damp with sweat. Seb hooks his finger under her panties, slides his finger back and forth between fabric and skin.

He can feel the slick wet heat of her against his knuckle. “ _Sebastian,_ ” she says, warningly. He looks up.

Irene stares down at him, breathless, biting hard on her bottom lip. There’s a red lipstick stain on her teeth, the color of blood, and Sebastian wants to lick it free – wants her to bury her teeth in him and blend the pigments of them together.

He wants to be buried in her, crush her to the bed and fuck her until she cries out underneath him. He wants to see her undone, begging, _pleading_ , mindless in pleasure. The fan of her hair on the pillow. The sweep of her lashes against her cheeks.

It’s a rapid-fire sequence of fantasies that go straight to his cock. Sebastian groans, biting his lip in unconscious mimicry of her expression.

If he thinks about what Jim would look like, in this position, he buries it as deep as he can.

Irene rocks her hips forward, shutting her eyes as she ruts herself against his knuckles. She’s so wet there’s nearly no friction at all; just the slide of flesh over Sebastian’s hand, the quiet exhalation as her clit rubs against the rough skin on the back of his fingers. All of a sudden the air seems much too close. Seb’s strong enough to rip her panties off, and he doesn’t want to waste any more time fucking around so the delicate black lace ends up in two pieces, somewhere beneath his dresser.

Irene makes a faint noise of protest, as if to speak, then Sebastian’s tongue is on her clit and his finger is sliding over her entrance, and she doesn’t do anything but cry out. Her hand slams down onto his shoulder, steadying herself. Seb’s finger strokes a lazy circle, echoed by his tongue. He starts slow, drawing it out, making Irene curse and grip at his skin so hard her long fingernails threaten to rip his shirt. Her knees shake. She’s wet and ready above him; when he finally penetrates her, his finger slides up into the tight wet heat of her body without resistance. She cries out, folding herself over him, putting all her weight on his shoulders just to stay upright.

Irene is salty on his tongue, slick and hot. He can feel her twitch whenever the tip of his tongue flicks over her clit; whenever his finger pushes against the soft spot inside her. She’s standing on her tip-toes now; the muscles of her thighs tense and rigid. Her hips judder, abortive little jerks forward for more stimulation.

Seb wonders if Jim would twitch like that. He tries not to wonder, but he does.

He buries his guilt in trying harder: pushing a second finger into Irene and spreading them just a little, so she cries out at the fullness of it. He flicks his tongue faster – first horizontally, then in quick spiralling circles.

Doing his best to prove it’s _her_ he wants to please.

“ _Sebastian,_ ” she murmurs, barely forcing the words out, “Oh, _there_ – there, that, _yes_ \- “

It’s a good fucking sign not to try anything new. Sebastian finds the motion he had and repeats it; a stab of his fingers upwards into her g-spot, his tongue licking quick circles around her clit.

He can feel her start to clench; growing impossibly tight, the muscles of her body flexing helplessly as she nears climax. He can’t smell anything but her sweat, her arousal; with his eyes closed, it’s like he’s drowning in her. The grip on his shoulder has gotten painful. His legs are falling asleep. But oh – so – _close –_

When she comes she makes a deep, hollow sound, not exactly a moan but like the sounding of a drum. She sounds faintly astonished, as the pleasure washes over her. Her muscles clamp down on Seb’s fingers, over and over, as if communicating each pulse of her orgasm.

She grips him hard enough to draw blood; maybe it’s what keeps her upright, while her legs tremble and she gulps down lungfuls of air like she’s been drowning.

Orgasm is tension and when it leaves her she slides down to the floor in front of him, a graceless heap like a discarded silk gown. Sebastian gathers her into his lap and for a moment they stay like that; Seb trying desperately to ignore his own arousal as she lets her breathing slow and synch with his.

Finally, when Seb’s erection has wilted and he’s half terrified he’s made her comfortable enough to fall asleep, she says, “There you go.”

He blinks, twisting to look at her without letting her fall. “What?”

“I said, there you go. You’re welcome.”

“Sorry, thought _you_ were the one getting face there –“

“Oh, Sebastian. You dear boy.” She turns in his arms, presses a warm hand to his face. Her eyes are pitying, and he hates her for it viciously. “You needed to prove you were good enough to serve someone, didn’t you? And I let you. I don’t even mind you thinking about him. Take it as a gift.”

The next breath Sebastian takes burns his lungs like bleach. “Get out,” he tells her, standing so quick she’s dumped to the ground.

 _Why?_ asks Jim, against Sebastian’s ear, _Because she’s right?_

++

Sebastian shuts the door of his flat behind Irene and leans back against it, rocking his head back against the wood with a dull _thunk._ This has to count as a new all-time low. His skin feels grimy, oily, and he’s got a bad taste in his mouth.

Seb pushes himself off the door and runs a hand through his hair. It doesn’t come away greasy, which is a bit of a surprise. He rubs his mouth, and heads for the shower.

_Thought about Jim. Well done, Moran. Of all the people in the world, you just **had** to have a psychopath front and center in your head._

Seb catches a glance of himself in the hall mirror and scowls at his reflection; bruised up, scarred, and make-up smeared. He looks like a train wreck, and for the first time since Tammy dragged him out of veteran affairs, he thinks he might be one.

 _I was happy being a model,_ Sebastian thinks to himself fiercely in the bathroom, as the water heats in his shower. _I knew I’d never had the war again, but I was so close to not wanting it…_

He can picture Jim’s face in the mirror. _You tried to blend in, and it worked for a while._

Seb leans forward to rest his head against the glass, and shuts his eyes. He might never stop wanting the war. And he hasn’t stopped wanting Jim.


	6. Chapter 6

Tammy’s on the phone in her office, and from the sounds of it she’s halfway through a world-class row. Seb hesitates outside the door, shifting uncomfortably in his shined black shoes. He got as far as raising his hand to knock, before he heard her fucking _reaming_ whoever's on the other end of the line. Tammy’s heels click about in frustrated circles, separated from Sebastian by a thin plywood barrier. It does nothing to muffle the sound of her snarling. There’s a plastic _crash_ as something gets thrown into the waste bin with more venom than usual, and Seb winces. He knows several vets that would avoid aggression training with Tammy, and several jar heads that might piss themselves.  There’s a loud thump as she stomps to her desk and slams herself down into her creaky chair.

Sebastian glances around the dim reception room. Getting caught eavesdropping is _not_ on his to-do list. But there’s only the glow of the exit sign and a depressing fake fern for company; it’s so long after hours that even the interns have gone home. Tammy only wanted to talk when business hours were over and the place was clear, so they could have a proper screaming match. Sebastian’s in no mood to fight, though. It’s why he wore the uncomfortable Italian loafers; Tam likes it when he looks like he gives a crap about fashion _._

“Tell me why I should,” Tammy snaps into her office phone, so loud every syllable is audible in the reception room. “Tell me why I _goddamn_ should. You know what I manage? Models. You know what I don’t manage? _Finely molded hamburger._ ”

And just like that, eavesdropping is no longer fun. Sebastian grits his teeth. Of _course_ Tammy’s taking someone's ask to task over him. Seb's a fucking rat hole. Tammy has every reason to be angry. Being blunt; there hasn’t been a fucking lick of work for Sebastian since _Vogue_. That should be impossible, considering the publicity it brought him. Not to mention the fact that the photos had been – true to Sherlock’s massive ego – flawless. Seb _should_ be doing _Glamour –_ he should be screening his calls with a fucking chainsaw. Even before Jim fucking Moriarty got involved, Seb was looking forward to the best days of his career – but instead even the worst sort of catalogue rags in town won’t call him back. The sudden shut-down doesn’t feel like a few ruffled feathers. It feels like all of a sudden the entire fashion industry put has put Sebastian Moran into the freezer and forgot about him. Which would be fine with Sebastian; only he's got this solving mysteries _thing_ , and no goddamn _clue_ why it’s happened. Even Irene won’t take his calls, which she really _should,_ considering.

Seb glances around the waiting room again, like the old fashion rags or slightly uncomfortable chairs are going to give him a hint. Unsurprisingly – nothing does. What else is new?

“I’ve sent him to them twice – twice!” Tammy yells, sounding furious, “And both times they sent me back something that I’m not even sure can take long _walks,_ let alone photographs.” Tammy’s voice lowers into a dangerous growl. She’s a fashion industry Attack Dog, if Sebastian ever met one, with a thin veneer of Princess on top. “Look. I get it. But I _can’t,_ Greg. I just can’t. I let Spider Studios shoot him again, and I’m not even sure he’ll come back breathing.”

If Seb was gritting his teeth before, now his jaw is nothing but fucking bone dust. _Jesus Christ._ Even the _name_ of Spider Studios is enough to put him on edge, now _._ Seb presses himself tight to the door: damned if he’s going to miss a single word Tammy’s saying _now._

“… _Yes,_ I know how stupid it sounds. … No. _Christ,_ no. The rest of the models wouldn’t put up with this brand of crap, anyways. It’s Seb, he’s… When anyone else would say _holy shit stop,_ that’s Sebastian’s cue to start bugging you to _go harder._ ”

The wood of the office door is cold against Seb’s cheek. He feels the emotions drain from him, one by one, in the order he should feel them; he should be shocked. Betrayed. Angry. Surprised, pleasantly, that Tammy would care enough to try and protect him. Instead, all he finds inside himself is a dull ashy coldness, like frozen charcoal.

“They can’t,” Tammy says, finally. She sounds like she’s pleading. Sebastian knows enough about her to recognize the sound of an argument that’s already been lost when he hears it. “They’re _one_ studio, Jesus, who do they even _have_ other than Moriarty and a revolving door of models? It’s got to be an empty threat. You hear it all the time, _you’ll never work in this town again…_ ” her voice peters off in an unsure way that doesn’t suit her at all. Whoever’s on the other end of the line, Sebastian can hear his voice in a low, fast undertone through the phone speaker. He says something that makes Tammy sigh. Sebastian can almost picture her pinching the bridge of her nose as she says, “…Okay. I’ll ask. Alright? I’ll just… ask. That’s all I’m promising.”

There’s something hot inside Sebastian’s chest and fucked if he can tell if it’s happiness or anger. The thought of seeing Jim Moriarty again is like hot coals held directly against his heart. It’s not that he wants to see Jim. It’s not that he _doesn’t_. It’s just that the mere idea of Jim’s smile sears Sebastian right to the bone, leaving him nothing but scraps of skin and ash.

He sneaks away from the door, and makes a lot of noise coming back. This time the office is open.

Tammy stands, and greets him with a strained smile. “Well _you’re_ not going to like this,” she says, and Sebastian braces for the words he already knows are coming. “Jim Moriarty’s asked for you again. And you won’t get another job from _anyone_ until you say yes.”

++

Moriarty gets the door grinning and Seb hates him for it.

“ _Well_ ,” Jim says, in a tone of absolute delight, looking Seb over.

Seb looks like hell and he knows it. He shoves past Jim towards the studio. “Well _what?_ ” Jim’s grin stays white and leering in his vision, like it’s been burned onto his retinas.

“Now, now, dear…” Jim follows, still with that shark-eyed grin plastered over his face. “There’s no need to be _rude._ I have _missed_ you. And you looked so _adorable_ pining after me…”

Sebastian shoots a narrow look at Jim, a deep growling anger rumbling in his stomach. The cheerful, bubbly personality is a slap in the fucking face. There’s no _way_ Jim’s forgotten that he kicked Sebastian out of bed and flew halfway across the world. Humiliation stokes a searing fire on the back of Sebastian’s tongue like a hot coal.

“If you –“ Sebastian starts. Then he rounds a large pile of extension cords, and sees where they’re shooting. The studio stage is as brightly lit as a glittering oasis in the dark. There’s no couch this time, but a sprawling mess of mattress and sheets cover most of the available space. Every inch of the place is pure, unforgiving white. It’s going to be a devil’s bitch for Jim to make the background look like anything but a white blob, but maybe that’s not the point.

 _Those bruises against the white sheets,_ Jim whispers, in Sebastian’s memory.

Seb doesn’t know if Jim’s joking with him or about him. The stark white walls of the stage have been hung in drifting curtains of gossamer white, giving the whole scene a dreamlike effect. Sebastian doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving until Jim paces past him and pauses at the edge of the set. He looks up at Seb and cracks his neck out to the side with a short jerk, a lizard’s gesture.

“I thought I might redo that last bit,” Jim says. His tone is still mocking, but now it sounds more like Jim’s mocking _himself._ Seb wants badly to step forward and grab Jim; shove Jim down on the bed and tear explanations from his throat. He swallows hard, and it tastes like crumpled-paper days spent waiting. Shame burns hot in Seb’s stomach. Grown men don’t fucking act like this, let alone soldiers. They don’t _mope._ They don’t form emotional connections to one night stands. Seb shouldn’t feel betrayed that brilliant Jim found him boring, in the end. They didn’t even _know_ each other.

…Oh, fuck ‘ _shouldn’t.’_ Seb might not have where Moriarty grew up or what his favorite brand of cheese is but he _knows_ him; bone deep. Instinctively.

And Moriarty betrayed him by leaving. “Is that why you ran away? And now you’re ruining my name in the business? For your own sadistic fucking pleasure?”

Seb throws the words between them like a gauntlet. Jim stares Seb down with his hands shoved in his pockets and raises his eyebrows in mock innocent surprise. “ _I_ did that? All by myself?”

“This is a game to you,” Sebastian accuses, furious.

Jim scoffs. “ _Everything_ is a game, only some people take playing things _seriously_.” He rolls his eyes, as if to say, _some people!_ As if taking anything seriously is a capital offence. “Life is a series of distractions, Seh- _bahs_ -tee-yan. Not an end goal in itself. Haven’t you found that out yet?” Jim’s mocking expression goes cool and dark in a heartbeat like the flip of a switch. “Or perhaps you _are_ aware that this is a game, and Irene was just a particularly _antagonistic_ move.”

It’s a penny on the train tracks of Seb's brain. His anger goes spiraling off into nothing. He blinks. “Is _that_ what this is about?” he asks, astounded.

After a long, terse moment, Jim shakes his head: another quick reptilian jerk to the side. Silence falls over them, dense and heavy, until Jim finally speaks.

“Changed my mind about the set,” he says roughly. He points Sebastian down a long hall, into the hulking shadows of stage lights. Sebastian gives him a long look, but there’s nothing behind Jim’s eyes; nothing that’s even vaguely recognizable as human. In the end, it’s Seb that has to look away. He sets off in the dark, and tries not to feel the hair on his neck rise with Moriarty behind him.

The hall is lined with Moriarty’s portraits. Not the for-show series. The murders. Bloody execution after bloody execution, lit by pointed floodlights, until there’s too much inhumanity to process and it overloads Sebastian’s brain. The gore fades into normality through sheer over-exposure.

Behind him, Jim is eerily quiet; Seb thinks _silent as the grave,_ then immediately wishes he hadn’t. It takes Seb longer than it should to realize what’s happened when Jim stops. Sebastian turns around and finds Jim in front of one of the portraits, head tilted back until his crisp black hair curls over his suit collar. At an angle, Seb can’t see what’s on the canvas. He turns back, and joins Jim. The canvas is one Sebastian hasn’t seen before; a macro shot of thick clots of blood, matted and drying in fine white sand. Jim smells like crisp cotton, and a spice Sebastian doesn’t recognize.

“Some distractions are more lasting than others,” he says, sounding almost sad. The camera has caught the blood just about to clot. Jim sways his shoulder into Seb’s chest, leaning on him.

“Is murder a distraction to you?” he asks, and immediately regrets it. Moriarty’s eyes swivel to him, black and soulless and huge as an owl’s.

“I thought you would understand,” he tells Sebastian, looking deeply disappointed. “You of all people, soldier- killer- _murderer-_ mine.”

“And _I_ thought you weren’t going to kick me out of bed and run to the _Bahamas._ ”

Startled, Jim throws his head back and laughs. “Is _that_ what I did!” he giggles. “Poor, poor abandoned Sebastian.” He pats Sebastian on the chest. His eyes glitter in the dark. “Did you miss me? Terribly?”

“Fuck you.”

“You _did._ ”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

Jim laughs again, a shrill sound like the scream of a bird. He gestures Sebastian forward to the staged area, with giggles still dying in his throat.

++

Before Seb’s family broke the knees of his trust fund and sent him to basic, he used to visit his grandmother’s summer home. He was five or six the last time they went, too young to remember anything but sensations. But he remembers the straight back wooden chairs in his grandmother’s kitchen. The press of the lathed rods against the bones of his spine; the way she’d rapped his knuckles with a ruler when he rested his hands on the table.

A wooden kitchen chair sits in the center of a pure white room, spray painted black. Sebastian sees it, and the bones of his spine ache in sympathy.

“Sit,” Jim says softly. “Naked.”

“You going to tell me why you left for the Bahamas?” Sebastian asks, pulling his shirt over his head.

“And take off the make-up.”

“No, then.” Sebastian drops his shirt to the side and looks around. “You got a sink? Wet cloth?”

“I did remember who I was shooting. Towel and makeup remover. Over on the sideboard.” Jim is staring at Sebastian with a look like he’s eyeing a suit he can’t even afford to try on. There’s a small electric light over the sideboard, a flat tray of sharp-smelling liquid, and a fluffy white towel.

The makeup remover has his chest clean in a single swipe. It leaves the towel beige, flattened and sticky. Sebastian makes a face, and keeps going. The hairs on his arms stand up as he rubs them backwards. The silence is rapidly going from tense to uncomfortable. Sebastian scrubs the towel over his head and pulls it away with the pancake-mask of his face left behind.

“I had to clean up a mess,” Jim says, apropos nothing. Sebastian looks up. Jim shakes his head. “Finish what you’re doing; my time isn’t _free_ , dear.” When Sebastian’s twisting to wipe the makeup off his back, Jim adds, “A kitten got stuck up a tree and they had to call me.”

Sebastian drops the towel back on the sideboard, covered in thick, creamy concealer. Jim’s got his face buried in his camera, ignoring Sebastian. He’s biting his lip hard enough that the skin over his chin has gone white. He doesn’t add anything else.

Okay. Ball in Sebastian’s court, then. “That’s it? Kitten in a tree?”

Jim nods. He looks over at Sebastian and frowns. “You’re still wearing trousers.”

“Exc _uu_ uuse me,” Sebastian simpers back, in his best princess voice. He can see the smile flick over Jim’s face, before it’s gone like a candle in a draft. “So, tell me, the freeze – did you really miss _me_ that much?” Sebastian drops his trousers and crosses the floor to the straight-backed kitchen chair. The floor is cold underneath his bare feet.

“Maybe it’s punishment.”

The chair sits in front of him, stark, the stain on it shining in the studio lights. The air of the room is growing hot against Sebastian’s skin, until it feels like a tanning salon. There’s a hesitation in the tendons of his legs, and he can’t seem to get rid of it. When he sits down, he’ll have to face Jim.

“Maybe you were _my_ favorite toy, and you weren’t supposed to let the other children touch you.” Sebastian’s eyes widen. Although he’s trying for angry, Jim hasn’t quite made it. He sounds… _hurt._ “Now have a _fucking seat!”_ The words have the undeniable snap of command.

Seb recognizes the voice from drill sergeants and a few whores he could mention. He has a fucking seat.

The chair is just as uncomfortable as expected – hard and unyielding and cruel. The lathed bars dig into his back. The seat almost immediately begins to numb his ass. But none of that matters.

Because Jim is staring at him, fingers white with tension on the camera. His dark eyes are fixed on Sebastian’s face, and he has that look about him again; like he’s staring at something he wants, so very desperately, and has been denied. He’s not grinning anymore.

Sebastian bites down several responses that taste acidic and weak. “I…” Jim raises an eyebrow. _I’m sorry._ “How do you want me to pose?” Sebastian ends up saying lamely, because he gets the feeling apologizing is only going to make things worse.

“How did you pose for Irene?” Jim snaps, irritable again, and waves the camera in the air before putting it to his cheek. “I don’t care. Do what comes naturally.”

And Jim back behind his lens again, untouchable and cold. Sebastian sighs. He leans forward on the chair, over his knees, and rubs his hands over his face. Whatever’s happening here, it’s fucked. It’s _fucked_. He should just tell Jim that –

The camera clicks. Sebastian looks up with a frown. It’s a fucking odd time to take a photo – he must look like he’s got a migraine.

But Jim snaps another, and Sebastian can see the creases in his forehead over the camera.

“That’s how you feel, is it?” He holds the camera away from his eye to look at the screen. It lights his face. He looks thoughtful: like he’s weighing probability in his mind. “ _Thinker’_ s not a bad look for you.”

“Yeah? Well I _feel_ like a fucking yo-yo.”

“Oooh. Clever. I’m throwing you up and down. _Shame_ the simile doesn’t fit.” Jim’s next photo catches Sebastian as he snarls in response. “More like an elastic band, dear. You let Irene pull you away and you’re _waiting_ for me to snap you back. I feel almost _bad_ for you.”

“I never said I wanted that.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “You never said you were blonde.”

“Get _fucked,_ Moriarty,” Sebastian says again, for lack of anything better to say.

Moriarty’s eyes narrow. “I’m not having this argument.”

“Guess we’re done here, then, aren’t we?” Seb snaps back. He tries not to feel disappointed as he puts a hand on his thigh, and starts to push himself up out of the chair.

“ _Stop._ ” Jim’s voice is like the lick of a whip and Sebastian freezes mid-motion. “Sit back down.” Sebastian slides back into his seat. Jim taps his fingers on the top of his camera. He licks his lips slow and thoughtful, watching Sebastian. “…Stay there.”

“Why?”

“I said _stay there_ , Sebastian, not _let’s play twenty questions._ ”

Jim disappears into the darkness outside the circle of stage lights. Sebastian can hear him rummaging around, but he can’t see exactly anything. The chair is getting steadily more uncomfortable. Seb shifts, trying to make himself comfortable. It must sound like he’s starting to get up, because Jim makes a warning sound in the darkness. Sebastian goes still.

“Good boy.”

When Jim crosses the pure white stage towards the chair, he looks like a smudge of shadow moving across pure white light. He’s got something in his hands, black and glossy and – oh, fuck. It’s rope. Jim’s got fucking _rope._

Jim closes the distance between them and that clean-and-sweet-spice smell of him makes Sebastian stop breathing. “Hands behind you,” Jim commands, soft and deadly. Seb nearly groans with the release of it.

He crosses his wrists behind them in the chair. Jim circles him. There’s a rustle of clothing as he kneels down and starts wrapping thin black rope around Sebastian’s skin. It’s just rough enough that it hurts. Sebastian’s breath hisses over his teeth.

Jim tugs his knots solid. “Pull at that, would you?”

Seb does. There’s no give whatsoever. Jim hums in satisfaction. His fingers start to trail up Sebastian’s wrists, following the tendons to his elbows. Sebastian shivers. The inside skin of his thighs is hot. Jim’s fingers are setting Sebastian on fire, leaving trails of scorched earth behind as they glide over Seb’s shoulders. Sebastian lets his head drop back, shutting his eyes and baring his throat, and Jim’s fingers slide to wrap around it.

Seb can feel the pulse in Jim’s thumb over his jugular, and shivers.

“Ankles to the legs of the chair…” Jim murmurs. Sebastian spreads his legs a little wider. The blood in his body starts slowly slipping towards his cock. When Seb opens his eyes, Jim is pacing a tight circle around him, eyes narrow and calculating. There’re two more lengths of rope in his hands.

When Sebastian’s ankles are bound firmly to the legs of the chair, Jim pauses – kneeling between Sebastian’s knees. It’s not a calming sight – those pink lips, inches from the inside of Sebastian’s knee. One of Jim’s hands, resting idly on Sebastian’s ankle, over the thick threads of rope.

Sebastian takes a deep breath.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into.” Jim’s voice is deep and monotone. “If you had, you wouldn’t have gone to her, now would you.”

Sebastian’s brain is so ready for _sex_ that it takes a moment for the words to get through. What a fucking time to be talking about _Irene,_ Christ _._ He swallows his libido down with an effort. Not like he can do anything about his fucking erection, but whatever. Jim wants to play cool? Let’s play cool.

“If you didn’t want me with anyone else, shouldn’t have left,” Sebastian shoots back. He has to look away from Jim. He gets the feeling that leaking precum might undermine his angry tone, just a _little._ “Now are we still pretending this is a photo shoot or – “

Jim presses his lips to the inside of Sebastian’s knee. “You don’t know what I am.” Again, higher. The quick brush of Jim’s lips makes Sebastian jerk in the chair, and he’s not sure if it’s from arousal or because Jim has his teeth over an artery.

“You can’t understand what I need you to be.” Jim licks a line up the inside of Sebastian’s thigh, then presses another chaste kiss on the sensitive skin. Sebastian bites back a groan. His head’s going light. His fingers are cold and tingling with blood loss, and no matter how hard he jerks at the ropes, they hold.

“You think you can have just a _bit_ , and walk away. You think this is skin-deep…”

Sebastian is shuddering now. He can’t help it. He can feel his cock hard on his stomach, aching already, and he doesn’t even blame himself. Jim is zero to sixty as always – Seb’s just along for the ride. Jim twists his neck, and starts at the other knee, working his way upwards.

“You don’t even know how badly you’ve _failed_. You want and you _pine_ … But you’re a model – “ Jim’s teeth dig in to the soft skin of Sebastian’s inner thigh, where he’s vulnerable and exposed. “- Not a soldier.” Saying _stop_ is obviously meaningless. Seb still can’t help barking out an aborted protest, which Jim – obviously – ignores. He bites again, higher.

Angry now, if Sebastian was going to guess.

“You’re not _really_ my killer, are you? You _can’t_ be.” Jim sounds disappointed. He rests his cheek on Sebastian’s sweating, twitching thigh, and stares up Sebastian’s chest to his face. Sebastian has to take several deep breaths to remain conscious. Jim’s pink lips are an inch from his cock. “You’re _never_ going to be. They _ruined_ you. Painted you up like a good little whore and put you to work, and now it’s all you can do right. Poor you…”

Some part of that speech clears the fog in Sebastian’s head. “Jim, what –“

“Shut up.”

Just as quick as he kneeled Jim stands and throws himself off over the set. Sebastian’s left alone and half in shock. _What the fuck was –_

The air feels cold with the loss of Jim’s body heat. Seb gulps down several lungfuls and firmly tells his cock to stop being interested – it’s obviously not happening today. Out in the darkness there’s a rustle of cloth and the sound of a zipper.

Sebastian stays stubbornly aroused. _Fucking_ Moriarty. The ropes are holding, too. Seb’s stuck here until someone finds him, or the psycho in charge lets him go. He doesn’t even consider being afraid; he’s too fucking frustrated. After everything – for Jim to just fucking decide Seb _can’t be_ what he needs and that shit with Irene – Sebastian feels like he’s back in high school again. He opens his mouth to yell something – he has no idea _what,_ but it just feels like the time for an argument. _Fuck_ Moriarty.

Jim walks back into the circle of light stark naked, a bottle of lube in one hand, and all the arguments in the world explode into fragmentation grenade shards.

Sebastian shuts his mouth. The rope cuts his wrists as he pulls against it.

Jim crosses to him on the balls of his feet, light and silent as drifting smoke. If the world wasn’t already cast in white-and-black, high contrast and narrow focus, Seb would see it that way anyways. He swallows. Jim’s stomach is flat, with a thin lining of muscle over nothing but bone. He’s got a faint trail of hair leading down between his legs, where his cock is starting to harden, and a teasing little smile on his face.

“What do you say, Seb?” he asks, his tone friendlier than his words, “One last go, for old time’s sake?”

There’s something nervous about him; like he expects to be refused. He raises his weight up to his toes on his left foot, ready to flee, and there’s something like a heavy damp coal in Sebastian’s stomach. Or maybe it’s a ball of gasoline, because when it starts getting hot, Sebastian can tell he’s going to go up in flames all at once.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Seb strains against the ropes, and the fabric cuts in to his skin. “Jim, dammit – “ _I am what you need. I can be what it is. This isn’t the last time. Fuck you if you think you’re riding me now, after everything that’s_ – “Get _down_ here.”

Jim laughs. He sounds relieved. Like he’s not sure Seb would say yes, even though Seb’s quite obviously hard and aching. He steps forward again and straddles Seb in the kitchen chair.

Seb’s cock pushes up against the flat muscles of Jim’s stomach, and a bomb goes off behind his eyes. He shuts them to groan – then there are two hands wrapped in his hair, hot from the studio lights and the camera, forcing his head back. God knows where the bottle of lube went.

There’s a brush of hot air over Sebastian’s lips, Jim’s breath, and he opens his eyes just in time to see Jim’s lashes blur out of focus before he has to shut them again.

Jim kisses Sebastian like it _is_ the last time; like if he doesn’t fuck his way into Sebastian’s mouth tongue and teeth and hot snarling breath, Sebastian will disappear forever. He kisses like he means to bruise Seb permanently with his mouth, and Seb can’t do anything but tear his skin against the ropes and let Jim kiss him.

One hand stays in his hair. The other slips down between them. Sebastian can feel the muscles of his shoulders pull and pop against his collarbones as his body fights on instinct – _gotta get out of the fucking restraints. Gotta take Jim and pull him in every direction, rip him open, bury myself in him, stop him from leaving –_

Jim grips both of their cocks together, and jerks his hand upwards. It pushes a moan up through Sebastian’s chest and he pants it into the kiss where Jim swallows it, hungry, his hand working again.

Sebastian can feel hot precum on his skin already, slick against Jim’s fingers. He tries not to cry out, but it’s only a matter of time before he fails. Jim catches Seb’s bottom lip in his teeth and pulls it out, cruel and painful. He pumps their cocks together mercilessly: once, twice, _again,_ pushing a hot arousal beneath Sebastian’s skin by force.

Sebastian is dimly aware of the trickle of blood down his wrist from fighting the ropes. He breathes curses against Jim’s teeth, and Jim doesn’t care.

Just when Sebastian is about to scream _stop, fuck, I’ll come in your hand, don’t you dare –_ Jim lets them go. Sebastian feels his weight shift as he leans over – fetching something off the ground. _Lube._

The cap pops open, loud in the stillness. Jim pulls back from the kiss with a last stinging bite like a signature. He dips his head to Sebastian’s neck and sucks bruises there. Marking Sebastian. And to be honest, Seb couldn’t care less. He groans. Lube drips over his thigh as Jim pours it into his fingers, and Sebastian rolls his hips up as much as he can.

Jim rocks with him, riding him. The rise and fall of Jim’s chest against Sebastian’s is the only indication that he’s just as desperate as Seb is – but it’s there. The desperate heave of Jim’s lungs, the twitch of his cock pressed hard against Sebastian’s.

There’s a fleeting moment of triumph – _you want me just as bad_ – and then Jim makes a broken, hollow noise, his mouth falling from Seb’s neck to pant desperately into his collarbone. Seb can feel Jim’s weight shift over him – a twitch and jerk in Jim’s hips, at first, then Jim’s whole body starts to rock slowly back and forth over Sebastian. It ruts him up against Sebastian’s cock, over and over, and Sebastian presses desperately back into it. His brain seems to be breaking into smaller and smaller fragments. Jim’s cock catches against the bottom of Seb’s glands, and for an instant the white set blurs out of reality. _Fuck –_

There’s a slick, wet sound of flesh on flesh. Repetitive, getting quicker and louder. _Oh, fuck. Oh Christ._

Sebastian twists his neck to get a glimpse of Jim’s face as Jim fucks himself on his fingers. He can’t see much – Jim’s forehead is pressed to his shoulder, Jim’s body nearly bent over double. But Sebastian can see the pink of Jim’s mouth as he pants, open-mouthed.

Fuck ropes. Fuck bondage. God _damn_ it all. Sebastian wants to grab Jim. Wants to be the one fucking Jim open. Wants his hands and his teeth and his body all over Jim’s, _claiming_ him, _taking_ him.

The chair makes a sound as it jerks against the floor and nearly upends. Sebastian stops struggling. The sudden movement interrupts Jim’s steady rhythm, sending him crashing forward into Sebastian’s chest. From the sound of it, it also made his fingers go deeper a bit faster than on schedule.

Sebastian’s cock is trapped tightly between their stomachs, and he can thrust upwards just enough to make himself go insane. It seems like there’s nothing left in the world but hot skin against Sebastian’s, the slight dampness of their sweat, the debauched sound of Jim finger-fucking himself. Any separateness – any distance between them – gone now.

Almost. God, satisfaction is so close Seb can fucking _taste_ it. “Jim –“

“Almost – fuck, be _patient,_ I’m almost – _oh_ -“

Jim shudders. Sebastian can feel something slick drip from Jim’s cock between them – not enough to be come, not yet, but – “You’re _ready,_ fuck, Jim – “

“Impatient – “ Jim laughs, breathless, and leans up enough to crush his mouth on Sebastian’s again. He kisses sloppier now, less focused, his cruelty and ferocity lost. Sebastian nips at him, teasing – Jim barely has the focus to bite back.

One of his hands grabs at Sebastian’s shoulders, and Sebastian feels Jim’s wrist press against his arm on the other side as Jim pulls his fingers out of himself and grabs at the back of the chair.

“ _Now,_ ” Jim hisses into Sebastian’s mouth, but Sebastian doesn’t need encouraging. He feels Jim reposition over him, moving up and forward. The tip of his cock pushes at Jim’s entrance – slick with lube and still slightly open. Jim moans. Jim tenses.

Jim shoves himself back downwards on Sebastian’s cock without hesitation.

_Oh jesus fucking oh fucking **Christ –** _

Seb’s cock slams home in Jim’s body and he forgets everything for a split second – forgets even to breathe. He’s floating on whiteness, floating on being _empty_ inside. It’s a fraction of an orgasm just from the first thrust, and _shit,_ he needs to fucking slow down –

But this is Jim Moriarty. Seb should know better. Jim won’t slow down, won’t give Sebastian time to gather his wits. Maybe he _prefers_ Sebastian when Seb’s mind is fucked to hell.

For whatever reason, he doesn’t give Sebastian anything – doesn’t even give _himself_ any time to get used to the stretch. Jim fucks himself on Sebastian in short, hard jerks from the moment Sebastian’s cock is in him, braced on the back of the chair. Sebastian cries out, and Jim laughs between harsh breaths. He leans forward, grinding more bruises into Sebastian’s skin.

As if he’s saying, _I won._

Sebastian tries to rock upwards into Jim, trying to fuck him just a little bit harder, give him just a little bit _more,_ but he can’t. He’s helpless. Seb can’t even reach between them and get Jim’s cock – if he had the presence of mind to do it in the first place. Everything is rapidly growing dim and unimportant. Sebastian’s brain keeps rerouting all thought to _Jim_ – the slick slide of Jim’s skin against Sebastian’s, the short stilted way that Jim’s groaning with effort.

Underneath them the legs creak with the force of his movements, threatening to break – but Jim doesn’t seem to notice, let alone care. The muscles of his thighs are bunched and tense, his back arched, his hips twisting as he grinds himself onto Sebastian.

“Oh – fuck –“ Sebastian pants, hips shuddering, twitching uselessly up into Jim. Jim slams himself downwards on Sebastian’s cock, again and again, hard and fast and dirty. There’s a pressure on the inside of Sebastian, pushing outwards. It’s building fast, like a brick wall on the highway in front of him, and he can’t stop – he can’t slow down – it’s barely been a _fucking_ minute – “ _Jim, **please –** ”_

Sebastian doesn’t quite know what he’s asking for. Jim growls. He doesn’t change what he’s doing in the slightest. Sebastian’s skin feels like silk, like half-melted ice, too smooth to be real. The skin of Jim’s ass slaps against Sebastian’s thighs, his hips pounding down again and again. Sebastian twists in the chair, tossing his head back to get at the air that seems to be escaping him. The muscles of Jim’s body around Sebastian’s cock are tight and slick and blindingly hot –

And there it is, brick wall on the freeway, inescapable and rushing towards him –

“Jim, stop, I’m going to – oh, god, _Jim - !”_

Jim doesn’t stop, of course. And Sebastian falls to pieces under him.

++

 

 

 

 

 

++

Seb pauses with his shirt in his hands. Jim stands on the other side of the room, carefully far away, already half dressed.

Sebastian tries not to hate Jim for that. “After this you go back to being a recluse?” he asks, as he pulls it over his head, trying to act casual.

“After this I go back to being a recluse,” Jim agrees absentmindedly, fixing his tie.

Sebastian licks his lips. “So I won’t see you again.” The rope burns on his wrists sting like accusations.

Jim glances up sharply, and tilts his head in a way that makes Sebastian understand he’s being ridiculous. “It's unusual that you've seen me this much.”

“It’s not _enough_ ,” Seb blurts out, on impulse.

“Isn’t it?” Jim asks him blandly, watching Sebastian’s reaction like a buzzard on carrion.

Sebastian feels something acidic drop into his stomach. He feels like he’s swallowed pure bile and rinsed it with bleach. “You can’t be just fucking _done_. Not like this.”

“And yet I am.” Jim turns, kicking cables out of the way so he can find his tie pin.

“I don’t believe that.” Sebastian’s voice is surprisingly strong - it makes Jim turn back to him, which is something at least. They stare at each other like that for a moment, with Jim half out of the light and cast in threatening shadow. Then Jim tilts his head to the side like a curious bird.

“I will _kill_ you, dear,” he says, in the same tone of voice your mom might use to announce that it’s bangers and mash for dinner, “It’s not an idle threat. It’s an eventuality.” His eyes glitter, and Sebastian’s lungs fill with something heavier than air. “If you stay, I will kill you. You think you’re in the deep end now, but you don’t have any idea. You are going to _drown,_ soldier-boy, no matter how hard you tread water.”

If Jim thinks that’s a threat then he is dead, _dead_ fucking wrong. “I’m fine with that,” Sebastian tells him bluntly. Then, because the sentence seems too bare on its own he adds, “I want to.”

Finally, something that can bring Jim up short. He even struggles for words. Sebastian can’t help feeling a petty rush of satisfaction.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” It sounds stupid, even to Sebastian. Jim starts to shake his head, turning back to the darkness. Seb’s got to think of something – _anything_ – to stop him leaving. “It’s like you and your photographs. Why do I want to see how deep the rabbit hole goes? You said it yourself. I didn’t ask for it. I just – _do._ ”

 _Holding On To You_ is playing on the radio in the background and Sebastian doesn’t _want_ to notice, but he does anyways. It’s cheap and stupid: the sort of thing that feels scripted even when it’s happening to you. Jim makes a soft, uncommitted noise.

He’s going to leave, he’s going to _go_ again, and Sebastian’s going to fucking _die_ without him. Moriarty might make Seb want to rip his own skin off, but when he’s gone, it’s _worse._

He _can’t_ leave. “You think I don't see that hollowness where your soul should be, but fuck that. I’ve _met_ people like you before, Jim. Mujahedeen. Warlords. Rulers of criminal empires.”

Jim shudders all over, head to toe, and back again like something cold is going through his blood stream. “You have _never_ met anyone like me. Let me tell you what will happen,” Jim says, and holds up one slender finger to stop Sebastian talking. “And I’ll even be nice enough to warn you that I’ve adopted little bitty murderers like you _before_ , Sebastian dear. And they’re dead now. All dead and photographed and mounted. I killed them when they no longer interested me. I drained them dry and when they had nothing more to give me, I threw them out. Their... appetites... could never beat mine. And you? You’re not even in practice. How do you expect to win if you’re _rusty?_ ” Jim smiles, as if at a private joke. Who cares what he’s laughing about. He’s not leaving now.

“I’m better than anyone you’ve ever had,” Sebastian brags, trying to believe it. Trying to make _Jim_ believe it.

Jim smiles a predator’s smile, and it may be goading, and it may be _threatening_ , but he’s stuck on Sebastian’s fucking hook now.

“ _Are_ you,” Jim says. “Then you’ll have no problem proving it, will you?”

“A challenge?” _Perfect._ “If I win?”

“I will take you apart,” Jim says simply, with the sort of smile that means he knows what Sebastian’s thinking. “Until I am bored of you, dear, I’ll break you down and build new things out of you, over and over, until I get something you like. Or I get bored. And you know what happens then…” he draws his finger over his throat.

Better than nothing. “And if I lose…?”

Jim sighs. “Sadly, I’ll be forced to murder you.”

Sebastian looks up, already curling his fingers around victory. “So what’s the challenge?”

Jim stands half in light, and Sebastian can’t see his expression – he can only see the tap of a thoughtful finger against his lip. “Well, it has to fit the _goal,_ ” he says slowly, and then laughs.

The finger levels at Sebastian, pointing straight at his heart.

“Bring me Tammy’s head,” Jim says, delighted by his own ingenuity, “And get away with it. And you’ll have everything you ever wanted from me.”


	7. Chapter 7

September. 2011.

 

 

“I’m scarred.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m a half-dead, beat-up fucking addict that wasn’t even good enough for cannon fodder.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” Tammy ignores the acidic tone of Seb’s voice and leans across the table, her brown hair swaying out over the smooth surface. “I can _use_ you, Moran. Gia was the top piece of ass in the world with a heroin needle stuck up her arm the whole time.” She raises her eyebrows. “You better than that? We’ve all got secrets. Yours just happen not to _matter_ to me.”

Sebastian lounges back in the comfortable office chair, taking another drag of his cigarette. He’s being a prick and he knows it, but _Christ,_ how it feels to be _comfortable_ again.

Smoke drifts up towards the ceiling of the bright, airy conference room. The fourth wall of the room is a bank of clean, seamless windows through which London looks bright and clean and pure. No dirt. No homeless people. No crime. A bland sea of white buildings and dark, reflective windows: without pain or fear or death.

Sebastian hates it, personally, but to each their own.

He taps his ash straight onto Tammy’s polished table, just to see what she’ll do. She gives him a decidedly unimpressed look, and Sebastian grins; sticking the cigarette back between his lips. “I don’t even _want_ to be a model. Why the hell should I hire you as an agent?”

“Because you need someone,” Tammy tells him. She pushes the contract across the table again; crisp white paper, thick enough that it whispers against the glass when it moves. The pen resting on top probably costs more than Sebastian has in his bank account. “The army threw you out. You can’t keep a job down for more than a few days. Look, let’s be honest here, can we? You’re not going to cry on me?”

Sebastian glares at Tammy and she folds her hands on the table, right-over-left, her rings making a soft sound as the gemstones bump together. “You’ve got a shit temper and a mean streak,” she says, blunt as a brick wall, “You’re violent, reckless, and the other vets want to kick your ass but _can’t,_ and they won’t tell me why.”

Sebastian smiles crookedly to himself and takes another long drag. “They’re a bunch of pussies is why.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Tammy repeats. She reaches out and taps the paper. “I don’t care who you were, what you can do with a gun, or the mess you’re making of yourself now. All I care about, _Moran,_ is that _you_ need a purpose. And _I_ need a pretty face for winter who’s got a _Fifty Shades_ look. I bet if I put you in front of the camera now, it’d be Christian Grey looking back, and I can _bank_ on that.” She points at his chest accusingly. “Plus, you’re _offensively_ cut for someone who doesn’t care about looks.”

Sebastian blinks, and makes no move towards the pen.

Tammy sighs. “Quid pro quo, then. Alright? You do something for me, I do something for you. Take the job and I promise you won’t spend another night like the last one.”

Sebastian’s heart thumps out of time, but he still manages to give her his best skeptical look.

Tammy rolls her eyes. “Homeless, Moran? Drunk? Ringing a bell? Out on the streets picking fights because you don’t know how to do anything but be a soldier?”

That’s it. Sebastian gapes at her. He flat out _gapes_. It’s like she’s reading his fucking mind, this stupid little bitch with her flat-ironed hair and fifty dollar mani-pedi. There’s a long, flat silence. Tammy gives Seb a sardonic little smile, so sharp it might cut him. “What, you think I haven’t seen Jarhead?”

Sebastian, despite himself, snorts. She’s fucking funny, if nothing else. Tammy taps the paper again with a tight smile.

“Sign the goddamn contract, Moran.”

As he signs, he says, “It’s Seb, actually,” and Tammy’s smile gets a little bit wider.

++

“You’re insane.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“I’m not killing Tammy!”

“Aren’t you?” Jim straightens his cuffs and faces Sebastian in his natural state; cold, expressionless, inscrutable. The manikin-perfect poker face hangs around his face for a full four beats, then Jim grins. It’s lopsided, not quite reaching the left side of his face. He runs a hand through his hair to fix it, shaking his fingers at the end so the fine black hairs fall smooth and even over his collar. “But I thought you wanted me so _badly,_ Sebby,” Jim pouts.

Sebastian knows better than to say _it’s Seb,_ but he scowls anyways. “I’ve told you a million times –“

“You’re either a killer or you’re not what I want, darling, which one is harder to accept?”

Sebastian falls silent. He’s got some very good ideas of how to answer that: starting with _being a killer doesn’t mean jumping through your fucking hoops,_ and ending with _fuck you, you twisted little freak._ He glares at Jim, trying not to grind his teeth away entirely. Jim has a serene smile plastered on his face. Sebastian snatches his shoes up off the floor, and goes to sit in the abandoned kitchen chair to put them back on – ignoring the white-on-white smears over the floor.

Considering how recently Seb got off, he shouldn’t get a hot feeling in his stomach sitting in the chair again. He _definitely_ shouldn’t be involuntarily picturing Jim naked and wanting, remembering the way Jim’s chest had shuddered when he rocked himself backwards on Seb’s cock.

Sebastian bites his lip. _Aw, jesus. It hasn’t even been ten fucking minutes._

“That’s what I thought,” Jim sings at Sebastian’s turned back, making every hair on Sebastian’s neck stand up at once. Thank fuck there’s no such thing as mind readers. Sebastian refuses to look up. He tugs the strings of his boots tight with vicious precision, so hard the laces cut into his fingers. He can’t help the frustration that’s prickling under his skin. Tammy’s done a fuck of a lot for Seb that she didn’t have to do, and he shouldn’t be – he shouldn’t even be _considering_ turning on her for some psychotic twink with big eyes and a god complex.

He shouldn’t be considering murder to begin with. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ Sebastian wonders, scowling at his boots. The knots he’s tied are so tight he might never get them undone.

“I’m being _very_ nice, you know,” Jim informs Seb suddenly, from across the room. His smooth tone of voice does absolutely nothing for Sebastian’s nerves. “I wouldn’t give anyone else a second chance.”

Sebastian still refuses to look at Jim. He’s had enough involuntary reactions for one day. _I’m considering committing a murder. I’m considering killing my only friend._ He can feel himself teetering on the brink of no return, like a bulimic bent over the toilet.

Ignoring Sebastian’s silence, Jim continues blithely, “If that’s settled? Off you trot. Daddy’s got things to _dooo._ Bring me her head in a jar."

 _That_ makes Sebastian look up. “Fuck you,” he snarls at Jim, rising from the chair with a creak. Seb means it to be a curse, but somehow his voice comes out so quiet it hardly counts as angry. Jim’s standing just on the edge of the shadow, watching Sebastian with one hand tucked in his suit pocket and a teasing smile curving his lips. Looking at him, Sebastian could never guess that fifteen minutes ago Jim’d been the picture of debauched abandon. Jim’s hair is tidy and his suit is pristine; apart from a flush to his lips, there’s nothing about him that suggests sin.

Sebastian is thinking it anyways. Sebastian is looking at that _psycho -_ discussing a murder - and all he can fucking think about is the way Jim’d clutched his shoulders, digging his fingernails hard into Seb’s skin. Seb shuts his eyes. He’s a fucking coward. He’s weak and he knows it.

There’s another hush of crisp cloth as Jim tugs his suit straight. “It’s not up for debate, Sebastian,” he sighs. Sebastian opens his eyes. Jim gives him a pitying look. “The next time I see you, you have her head in your hands. Or I say bye-bye.” Sebastian’s growl dies in his throat. Jim cracks his neck out to the side, and adds, “You know, you’ve been _slow,_ but I think you’ve got it now. I really do. So if we’re done here…”

Jim turns away, the shadows swallowing him up as if he’s made from the same darkness that they are. Sebastian opens his mouth, but Jim doesn’t wait. Footsteps stride across the hall in the darkness, neat heels clicking on the laminate floor.

As Jim passes by the floodlighted paintings, his hair gleams: like silk in the fragile light.

Sebastian doesn’t say anything. What can he say?

++

“I completely fucking wrecked it.”

November, 2011.

Seb drops his head into his hands, smearing his eyeliner off on his palms. “Christ, why the _fuck_ did I agree to this?”

“It was your first shoot, Moran, don’t give me this crap.” Tammy’s grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled. She stares dead forward, not acknowledging Sebastian at all. There’s a dangerous set to her perfectly pink lips. “You’ll get better.”

“That prick told me –“

“I don’t give a fuck what he told you.”

Stony silence. It’s Tammy that finally sighs. She takes her eyes off the road long enough to glance at him, then goes back to paying attention. “I told you I’d make a model out of you, Moran, and I will. I swear. You just trust me, alright?” Seb looks up at her. The car is small enough that his knees are jammed up nearly to his chest, and he can see a run in Tammy’s stocking on the inside of her thigh. Her profile is cold and absolute. Seb thinks he would have liked having her at his back in Afghanistan, when things got rough. He thinks Tammy could have handled it. Maybe he could teach her to shoot, sometime.

While Seb’s thinking Tammy leans over and flicks the radio on, killing the awkward silence. “And – “ She adds at a stop sign, almost as an afterthought, “Next time, _please_ don’t grab an intern to use as a shield when the projector backfires.” Seb looks over. She’s smiling at him, crooked but still a little friendly. “Reasonably sure we won’t have mortar fire on set, Moran, strange as it is to say.”

Seb smiles back. “Sure as fuck sounded like it,” he says, and she laughs.

++

Seb looks down at the wet pavement between his boots outside of Jim’s studio. There’s a cigarette butt floating in the gutter, golden tobacco stained damp and brown. “I’ve got something I need to talk to you about,” he tells his phone. He’s leaving long streaks of oil on the touch screen, remnants of his own sweat.

Or Jim’s sweat, maybe. Who knows?

Tammy sighs. Seb can barely make it out from the hiss and crackle of bad reception. He tilts his head into the phone, as if it’ll make her come through easier. “Really?” Tammy asks Seb shortly, trying to sound frustrated. She doesn’t quite make it. Sebastian rubs a hand over his mouth, feeling his stubble catch on his thumb. In the puddle, he can see his reflections’ bruises.

Tammy’s worried. For some reason, he thinks it would have been easier if she hadn’t worried. Christ, if she’d just been a bitch…

_Am I really considering doing this?_

“I’ll make time if you’re here in ten minutes,” Tammy decides finally, with her characteristic acidic tone. It makes Sebastian want to smile. Or throw his fist through a wall, he hasn’t decided. “I don’t have all day, though, so if you’re going to be late, you can forget it. Oh, and Moran? Bring me a latte. Extra sugar. Hold the foam.”

Sebastian keeps the phone to his ear for a long second after she’s hung up, thinking. His brain moves slow and awkward, like Jim’s stuck something into his ear that’s fucking his thoughts up. It’s starting to rain again, light droplets; barely more than mist on Sebastian’s skin. He can feel his hair go wet by inches, but he doesn’t move.

When he swallows, Jim’s bruises are tight on his skin; a little shock of pain, like a reminder. Like a curse.

++

“Tammy.”

“Oh, sweet lord. What the fuck happened to you?”

Before Sebastian can stop her Tammy grabs his wrist, over the raw marks of Jim’s ropes. Her thumb rubs back and forth over Seb’s red skin, ignoring the blood that smears over her fingerprint. “Jesus,” she breathes. There’s a vulnerable moment where she’s too surprised to hide her expression, and Seb can see her emotions move over it like clouds. Shock. Horror. Sorrow. Anger. “Who the fuck did this to you, Seb?” she asks. Her grip tightens.

The sweat on the palm of her hand stings in Sebastian’s open wounds.

“Fuck!” Sebastian snatches his hand back, cradling his wrist to his chest. “Be a little bit rougher, would you?”

Tammy makes a face to cover the fact that she’s sorry. “Don’t be a wuss,” she tells Sebastian gruffly, and turns away. She puts her desk between them before she sits down: a safe little barrier in the small space. Sebastian stands awkwardly at the other end of her office, waiting. He can feel acutely how empty his hands are. There’s a knife shoved down the back of his trousers; hard to get a gun in London, if you don’t have contacts on the wrong side of the law. The blade is cold against his hip even through the fabric of his pants. He can’t stop thinking about it.

Tammy hides her mouth behind one slim-fingered hand and looks him over; taking in the bruises, the rope-burn, the red spot on his lip where Jim broke his skin.

A strand of her hair is caught on her cheek; sticking in her faultlessly applied foundation. Sebastian stares at it, unseeing. _I can’t,_ he thinks. _Fuck, I can’t, not Tam._

“It was Moriarty, wasn’t it?” she asks brusquely, once she’s gotten up the courage. Seb sucks his bottom lip in and bites it, and that’s all the answer she needs. “It _was._ Alright, that’s it. You’re not taking another fucking contract with him, you hear me? You two are done. _Done._ He keeps – “

“Tam,” Seb interrupts, cutting her into silence, and then can’t think of anything to follow it up with.

Manic Jim. Dangerous Jim. Intoxicating, deadly, fascinating Jim, who promises to be everything the war was, and more – who burns like a fire under Sebastian’s skin, who takes all the colour in the world with him when he leaves –

Sebastian stares at Tammy, and thinks about Jim, and that is the moment he knows he would kill to keep Jim. Without hesitation. Women, children – if Jim wanted to do another series of portraits, Sebastian knows without a doubt he’d pull the trigger.

And he knows, just as certainly, that he can’t kill Tam.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Moran?” Tammy demands, crossing her arms over her desk. Her nails are as flawlessly manicured as always; pale beige and white, with a streakless sheen. She’s never had blood under her nails a day in her life. Sebastian licks his lips, and swallows, looking up to meet her eyes. She’s worried; he can see it in the creases on her forehead. One of the last people around that _worries_ about him. One of the only people left who holds him to human. Seb takes a deep breath.

“Nothing, Tammy,” he says, with a shake of his head. “Nevermind. Forget it.” There’s a sick, empty ache in him, knowing that he’s giving Jim up; and the worst part is knowing that he _would_ be a killer, given the chance. It’s not morals holding him back, and it’s not a lack of desire. It’s just Tammy. Stupid fucking fashion-Barbie Tammy, and her bad fucking luck in choosing models.

Tammy furrows her brow, quizzical, and opens her mouth to ask a question. Sebastian just raises a hand and waves her off, turning for the door.

The open door.

Where Jim is standing, something sleek and shining and metallic in his hand. He’s wearing a dark suit. Hair slicked back. Eyes narrow. His mouth a thin, colourless slash.

He raises the gun in his hand. Sebastian has just enough time to say, “ _You?_ ” foolish and confused. Jim pulls the hammer back, and it all kicks into slow motion. Tammy starts to rise from her chair, yelling something that she doesn’t have time to form into words. The office chair goes rolling back over the floor, wheels screaming in protest. Sebastian starts to move forward – too slow, god knows, there’s no one faster than Jim Moriarty.

Tammy’s brown hair flies out around her shoulders like a silken veil, her pink-glossed lips opening in an expression of comical surprise, and Jim Moriarty puts a bullet square between her perfectly-plucked eyebrows; spattering her sharp, clever brain backwards onto a blank cubicle wall.

Afterwards, Sebastian will hate himself. He will hate himself because the gun goes off, and he’s not looking at Tammy; he’s not even thinking about her. In that startled moment - after the deafening sound of the gunshot - Sebastian is watching Jim’s cold expression over the trigger, and his stomach is hollow with lust.

++

“It’s funny,” Jim says when the smoke has cleared, into the silence, “I knew you couldn’t do it… but I’m still finding this a little… disappointing.”

“I’ll _kill you._ ” Sebastian says, uselessly, to cover that awful moment when he hadn’t been angry at all.

“No,” Jim says, with a sweet little smile, lowering the gun, “Oh, no, darling, you won’t.”

Sebastian can’t take it. He gives into the mindless, monstrous rage moving under his skin; in part because it’s easier than admitting what his first reaction had been. Jim takes a step into the room and shuts the door behind him. A shiver runs over Sebastian’s body. He refuses to think. He forces his mind completely white, blanking out everything with a fury so fierce and pure he doesn’t have to put it to words.

Playing the moment over in his head helps. The explosive sound of the gun going off, surreally loud even with Jim’s silencer. The snap of Tammy’s head, the splatter of red against the wall, the way her graceful limbs had sprawled out over the office chair, all thoughtless and messy without anything to animate them.

Seb doesn’t make a conscious decision to move. One moment he’s standing there frozen, looking between the corpse of his boss-and-only-friend, and the next moment he’s on the other side of the room. Jim’s skull slams back against the wall. His throat is white against the tanned skin of Sebastian’s hand; the exact colour of scar tissue. He makes a sound somewhere between choking and laughing as Sebastian’s grip tightens.

“What the fuck have you done?” Sebastian demands. He’s trembling. Cold and hot anger keep running through his body over and over, sending chills from his scalp down his spine. He’s going to kill Jim. He’s going to rip the skinny little _fuck_ limb from limb, grind him down, tear Jim’s throat out with his teeth _–_

Jim’s face is going red. He can’t breathe. Sebastian growls, feeling the sound rumble around and over his jaw. He doesn’t _care._ He squeezes down on Jim’s throat, fingernails pressing in, going for blood over Jim’s jugular. _How dare he make me –_

Jim’s dark eyes are bulging in his deep-set sockets, the thick smear of his eyelashes making the whites look even more bloodshot against the black of his irises. Sebastian is going to watch Jim’s eyes as he dies. There’s something good about that. Something _satisfying,_ on a primal level.

That he can’t stop the satisfaction of his hands on Jim should be the first warning sign, but it doesn’t manage to get through the furious mess of Sebastian’s thoughts. The hard muzzle of Jim’s pistol pressed between Seb’s ribs, on the other hand, _does_. Sebastian glances quickly down between them. Jim may be suffocating, but his hand is absolutely steady. The safety’s off. God knows the gun’s loaded. Sebastian’s eyes slide back up to Jim’s, unhurried. Jim’s face is dark, now. He’s making uncomfortable hitching sounds in the back of his mouth, an involuntary physical response to suffocating. The gun presses into Sebastian’s side a little more insistently. Sebastian snarls, but there’s no way out of it.

He lets the pressure on Jim’s throat ease. He still doesn’t take his hand away. Jim coughs, twice, before he can manage to speak. “Feeling… better?” he asks, voice scratchy.

Something white and painful blooms behind Sebastian’s eyes. His vision darkens; it’s like he can’t keep colour or brightness in mind, not with Tammy’s corpse lying there, not with Jim _amused_ by it. His focus narrows, single-mindedly, until there’s nothing left in the world but himself and Jim.

 _“I’ll kill you,”_ Sebastian hisses again, unable to dredge anything else out of his mind. His thoughts are reeling. He presses a little tighter to Jim, pinning Jim against the wall with the weight of his body. His fingers twitch against Jim’s neck, digging in for a split second before he remembers the gun, still jammed up against his bones. As if Jim would let him forget.

“No,” Jim says, breathless with amusement. “Oh, no. No.” His eyes flick down to Sebastian’s lips, and back up again; an insulting once-over that makes Sebastian’s gut roll. Unfortunately for Seb, it’s not entirely _anger_ that makes his stomach feel empty and hollow.

_No. No. Not after that, god, no._

Jim leans forward, pushing against Seb’s hand on his throat. His chest braces against Sebastian’s, the heat of his skin overpowering with only thin fabric separating them. Sebastian feels something rise from his stomach and press against the underside of his heart. He wants to let go, throw himself backwards. He can’t. He won’t. Underneath the smell of Jim’s skin the reek of blood lingers, heavy on the air.

Sebastian wants to hurl Jim down to the floor, grab him by the hair, and teach him a lesson. He wants Jim bloody. He wants Jim writhing, begging –

_Don’t go there. **Don’t.**_

Sebastian swallows, hard. He can feel Jim’s heart beating where they’re pressed together. Rage is still boiling in Sebastian’s chest, so hot it leaches the air from his lungs and leaves him breathless. Underneath the rage, though, there’s something else, something much darker and more dangerous: driven by the simple closeness of their bodies. It’s the air; the smells of blood and Jim, twisted together, spice and iron and fear.

Sebastian knows his anger is going to change into something else before it does, and he hates himself for it. He hates both of them.

Jim’s eyes slide half-shut, watching Sebastian with an intensity bordering on fascination. “There you are,” Jim whispers. “Killer-mine. Look at you. You just can’t decide whether you want to fuck me or eat me alive, can you?” The gun in Jim’s hand presses in and upwards, grating over Seb’s bones. Seb bites his lip; choking down hatred and awful desire so thick it’s like a paste in his mouth. He tries to think of Tammy, Christ, her fucking _body –_

Jim’s eyes bore into his, and Sebastian knows with awful certainty that Jim is perfectly aware of how he’s feeling. “There you are,” Jim repeats, softer. “Tell me, could you do it? Now, right now, if I didn’t have a gun to you – could you kill me?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sebastian hisses, quiet and hateful. He wishes it was the only thing he wanted. Even with Tammy – even with what just happened – he can _smell_ Jim, he can _feel_ him, and the lizard part of Sebastian’s brain that never cared for human emotion is thrumming in satisfied delight.

_What is **wrong** with me?_

“And do you want it?” Jim’s voice is hushed and just a little too fast; hanging off the edge of crazed. He leans forward so his words brush against Sebastian’s lips, watching Seb with his eyes lit and terrifying. “Are you _craving_ it? Can you almost _taste_ it?”

Goddamn Jim. And goddamn Sebastian too. “Yes.”

“It would be good, wouldn’t it? Would be _sweet,_ feeling me go, slowly, helpless and _weak_ beneath you – “

Jim’s breath is a hot caress on Sebastian’s lips, so close that they might as well be kissing. One of Jim’s thighs pushes up between Sebastian’s legs, sliding firmly against the underside of his cock without hesitation. The contact goes through Sebastian like two fingers to an electric fence, like scratching an itch he didn’t even know had been driving him wild. Sebastian jerks in horrified shock. He looks up, meeting Jim’s eyes. There’s absolutely nothing human left in that dark stare, nothing merciful at all. Sebastian licks his lips. He doesn’t try to pull away. The hot, sustaining rage is seeping away, now; leaving only a hollow, hungry desperation.

“And it isn’t just because of poor, dead Tammy,” Jim croons, still grinding his thigh up inexorably between Sebastian’s legs. His free hand – the one not holding the gun – comes up between them, and strokes Sebastian’s face. His fingers are as cold as ice. Sebastian flinches away, and it isn’t because Jim’s touch feels _bad._ Jim keeps pressing himself just where Sebastian needs it, the muscles of his leg hard and ruthless. Seb’s breath is picking up. He wishes Jim would stop talking. He wishes Jim’s thigh would stop moving against his cock, rocking back and forth, building an awful, unstoppable heat.

Jim’s sweet, seductive whisper is threading through all of Seb’s thoughts, turning his rage around, twisting Sebastian in on himself. It’s not just the pressure on his cock; it’s Jim _._ More than anything else. It’s Jim’s voice, it’s how Jim _knows,_ it’s how he fucking _owns_ Sebastian, even after everything he’s done –

“I’m going to do you a favor, Sebastian,” Jim murmurs, his deep purr scattering what’s left of Sebastian’s thoughts. “I’m going to say what you’ve been thinking all along.” He shifts his weight, adjusting his position so his rocking thigh strokes Sebastian’s cock in just the right place to make Sebastian bite back a moan. Jim’s skin is warm even through the separation of their trousers, and Sebastian – without meaning to – cants his hips to bring them closer together, rutting himself against Jim’s leg like a horny high-school student.

“You can’t bring yourself to admit it, killer-mine,” Jim whispers, “But I _know.”_ His thigh jerks upwards. Sebastian has to slam his hand on the wall above Jim’s head to stay upright. The gun jams in hard towards his lung. He’s still got his hand on Jim’s throat, but the gesture is only token, now. He’s not going to hurt Jim. He can’t. His head falls forward onto Jim’s shoulder. Sebastian tells himself it’s to hide his expression, but he hasn’t got anything left to hide and they both know it. Jim’s gone right through him again. The smell of blood is thick on the air, and Tammy is dead, and Christ, it doesn’t _matter._

Sebastian still wants Jim, and Jim is still flaying him open.

“You don’t want to star in my little pictures,” Jim tells Sebastian, quiet and sure, “You want to _make_ them. You want to be the one with the gun, just like you want to kill me.”

Sebastian moans, low and broken. Jim hears it.

“You’ve been playing at being a good man for so _long_ , dear,” Jim whispers, and Sebastian curses him powerlessly, “It’s alright. No more playing.” Sebastian barely hears the gun go clattering off over the floor. He’s too busy fucking himself forward onto Jim’s leg, rutting desperately against Jim’s hip. Jim shoves a hand down in between them, wrapping his fist tight around Sebastian’s cock. Even with the barrier of fabric between Seb’s cock and his palm – the smell of blood on the air –

It’s too much. Jim’s grip tightens, fisting Seb quick and dirty like he doesn’t mean it to last. Oh, god. Goddamn Jim. Goddamn him to hell, and Sebastian with him. Sebastian shudders, losing his balance, and collapses forward against Jim on the wall. He can feel a devouring, animal heat spreading through his body; pulsing with his heartbeat, setting his skin on fire. The rough fabric of his trousers scrapes between Jim’s hand and his shaft with every thrust, every stroke. Seb’s oversensitive enough for it to be painful. And Christ, it’s good. It’s devastating. It shouldn’t be. It is.

Sebastian moans, losing his grip on Jim’s throat. He clutches at the front of Jim’s shirt instead, knowing he looks weak, unable to care. One of Jim’s buttons snaps off under his fingers as he twists his hand, crumpling the white fabric hopelessly. “Jim – “ he pants, breathless, broken.

“ _Now,_ killer-mine,” Jim whispers. His fingers tangle in Sebastian’s damp hair and pull, not quite hard enough to be truly painful. Around Sebastian’s shaft his grip tightens, thumb stroking over Sebastian’s slit every time Sebastian thrusts himself up into Jim’s fist. “Now, do it _now – “_

Sebastian’s body tenses like a bowstring, quivering, ready to fire. The heat inside him builds and breaks, an impossible wave of heat and light, and Sebastian cries out against Jim’s shoulder. He has to clutch at Jim’s shirt to stay upright, scrabbling for a last grasp of sanity as Jim works him, quick and ruthless, over the edge.

++

When it’s over and done the horror of what he _wanted_ comes back like a wave. Sebastian shoves himself away from Jim and the wall, stumbling backwards like he can’t quite get his feet to work. He stares at Jim blankly. His eyes are firing, optic nerves up and working; but somehow it’s not connecting to his brain.

None of it fits together. There’s Tammy’s corpse, slumped over backwards in her chair with a bullet straight through the center of her methodical, acerbic, _compassionate_ brain. The gun, tailor-made for a small hand, one bullet missing from the magazine. And Jim, lifting his hand to lick Sebastian’s come off his fingers.

Seb can still feel the fading endorphins of his orgasm dragging through his veins, draining away, leaving him cold and ashamed.

Jim smiles and steps forward, sauntering after Sebastian, daintily avoiding the blood and spatter on the floor. “Do you get it now?” he asks when he’s close enough for Seb to feel his body-heat again, tilting his head like a curious cat. Sebastian’s mouth works, but he can’t seem to say anything.

He’s lost. He knows it.

Jim reaches out, slides his fingers under Sebastian’s chin and tilts Sebastian’s face up towards him. Sebastian stares at him, mind blank. Jim smiles, pityingly, and runs his thumb over Sebastian’s lip. “You’re mine, baby boy,” he says, pleased. “Always have been. Always will be.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter - Sebastian succumbs to Jim. Murder and sex ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore warning! And Minor Character Death, I suppose, whoops, I forgot to put that in the tags. Major Character Death? IT'S NOT ONE OF THE BOYS, ANYWAYS.
> 
> This is the final chapter! And it also marks the start of my indeterminate-length hiatus from fandom. I'm going! I'm quitting. I don't know when I'm coming back, or if I'll come back to fanworks at all. [ This explains why.](http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/post/100495816016/quitting-the-fandom-no-longer-writing-fic-making)
> 
> Thanks as always to Miescha, my wonderful and amazing beta who I could do nothing without. Okay guys. Thank you so much for reading and supporting me!

Seb stumbles from the office building to Jim’s car in a dim haze. The sky is a bright blur, white and gauzy above a dark pavement. People swing by sickeningly on the sidewalk. Seb gets only the vaguest impression of sounds; engines, horns, music, a siren sounding far off in the distance. All indistinct and insignificant. There’s an acidic taste in Seb’s mouth, and nothing about the world seems quite important. Or at least, not as important as Jim.

Jim’s hand grips Seb’s shoulder, cold as ice and implacable, his fingernails dug in to Seb’s bones. If Seb concentrates he thinks he might be able to hear Jim’s breath, steady and unhurried over his teeth. He can smell the rust-iron scent of blood on Jim’s cuff. The hot iron and gunpowder of the pistol in Jim’s trousers.

At the curb there’s a car waiting. Big. Black. _Limo,_ Seb thinks, somewhere distant and unimportant. It looms suddenly in front of him, the door already open and waiting. Jim’s frozen hand tightens on Seb’s shoulder, and forces him downwards. Seb’s stomach roils. He can taste stomach acid on his tongue again, thick and acrid. He tumbles forward into the leather-and-glass interior of Jim’s limo, and the outside world shuts off as if it had never been.

Inside, in the confined space, the smell of Jim is more intense. The blood-and-iron reek is so thick on the air Seb feels like he can barely breathe, let alone think. Jim surrounds him. Engulfs him. Seb squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm himself, trying to ignore the way his head is swimming dizzily. _Tam is dead and I pretty much fucked Jim over her corpse._

_Tam is dead and I don’t know if I even care._

If Seb keeps thinking about it he’ll drive himself insane. When he rubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, the pads of his fingers come away wet; but at least it makes him feel a little less dizzy. The car door slams, and there’s a loud squeak as the leather seat adjusts to Jim’s weight. Seb shoves himself upright, looks up, and meets Jim’s eyes. There’s a small spot of blood on Jim’s jaw. He’s watching Seb with a considering expression, his mouth twisted up to one side and his eyebrows knit tight over his nose. Seb opens his mouth to speak. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but he’s got to say something. He can’t take the silence. It’s just too big, too awful, too horribly present on the air between them.

 _You killed Tammy._ Jim cuts Seb off with a wave of his fingers before Seb can so much as open his mouth. “Home,” Jim says shortly to the driver. He rakes one hand through his hair to fix it, the strands shining with oil.

“Jim – “ Seb starts.

“Don’t.” Jim won’t look at Seb again. He settles in to a seat across the limo with one foot propped up on the leather and his knee tucked in to his chest. “I don’t want to hear it.” Jim’s profile is cold, the sharp line of his nose white against the tinted windows. He leans forward and thumbs the button for the partition wall, raising a plastic screen between them and the driver.

The only light in the back of the limo comes from under the seats, a delicate gold glow. There’s a strand of hair Jim’s forehead that waves as the engine fires to life. Seb grits his teeth, fighting the urge to lean forward and tuck it back into place. He can almost feel Jim’s skin under his fingers; hot as flame, like Jim’s burning on the inside. Like Jim’s a sun under his skin.

The car pulls away from the curb. Jim rubs his thumb over his lips, glancing at Seb. Whatever Jim sees on Seb’s face, it makes him sigh and flop his head back against the window with a hollow _thunk._ “Oh, don’t,” he moans, “I’m not your _Daddy,_ Seb, I’m not going to _ground_ you for disappointing me.”

Something twists in Seb’s stomach. “No?” he rasps. It comes out raw and vulnerable, and Seb hates himself for it. Jim blinks. He looks back to Seb, watching expressionlessly as Seb braces himself on the floor and pushes himself up straighter in the seat, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “What are you going to do, then?” Seb asks.

A bitter smile spreads over Jim’s face, wide and utterly insane. “I don’t know,” he says. “After all, you _did_ disappoint me.” His foot drops to the floor and he leans over, the lights of London playing over his face through the tinted windows. “Should I _spank_ you, Baby boy?”

“Fuck you,” Seb says, more for the sheer _insult_ of it than anything.

“What, did you expect me to say that little hand job was punishment enough?” Jim’s lip curls upwards in a sneer. He looks like he can’t help pushing Seb’s buttons, just for the sake of it; gloating and disgusted in equal measures. Seb’s stomach turns bitterly. Jim’s voice cracks like a whip. “Because I love you so huggy much, it’s all _okay_?” Seb turns away, repulsed, refusing to give Jim the satisfaction of seeing how much he’s getting to Seb. Too late, for that, of course – but what can Seb do?

He has to try.

Whatever Jim sees in his face, though, it makes Jim go smooth and self-assure. “No,” he purrs to Seb, “Oh, no. No. You’re mine, now. You’re going to disappear, and no one is ever, ever going to find your body. Because I’m going to make you into a whole new animal.” His deep voice twists around Seb’s ears, digging in to the back of Seb’s neck. Fine hairs stand up along Seb’s skin, prickling, raising goosebumps on his arms. “They won’t even be able to _start_ putting you back together again,” Jim promises.

++

The basement, again.

“You’re getting predictable,” Seb says. The chains holding him are infuriatingly solid.

“No, I’m not!” Jim sings, from across the room. Seb can’t see him out there in the dark. He’s pacing; shoes loud against the floor, clipped footsteps echoing off the bare concrete. Seb would stand, or turn, but his chains are attached to the bottom of one of the wooden posts and he can only struggle a few inches of movement out of them. Jim’s been careful not to cut off circulation, but there isn’t much give above that. Seb shivers, the basement air dank on his naked skin.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Jim says, from the unplaceable blackness, “There’s other places. Everything in good time… You were _so_ curious about my little vacation, after all. It’d be rude not to show you.”

“The Bahamas?” Seb asks, confused. He shakes his head, trying to remember. “You said a cat got stuck up a tree…”

Jim’s shoes click closer, then cold fingers thread through Seb’s hair. “They called me to sort it all out for them,” he agrees, then mimics cruelly, “ _Fix it for us Jim, will you? Fix it so the naughty health inspector disappears –_ “

Seb tries to think, a monumentally difficult task with Jim’s nails trailing over his scalp. “You couldn’t use someone like that in your photos, though – if – if one of yours was identified as a missing person – “

Jim hums, pleased. “ _Very_ good, Seb. _Clever._ I do have to be _so_ careful about my models.” His nails drag lower, over Seb’s neck, feeling the bones of his spine. “They all volunteer, you know. I solve their problem… They solve mine…” His hand splays on Seb’s back, fingers spread wide, palm pressed flat on Seb’s goose-bumped skin.

Seb sucks a slow breath in through his teeth, _getting_ it. “A life for a life,” he says.

There’s the thin, hot prick of a blade setting in to his skin between Jim’s spread thumb and index finger. “And how do you count that?” Jim asks, easily. The knife begins to dig in.

Seb’s brain goes suddenly, _devastatingly,_ offline. An inch’s slip and he’s paralyzed forever. The pain’s so intense it feels like hot wire, burning his skin from his bones, but the fear – the fear chokes off his air entirely. It seems like forever before Seb manages take a shaky breath. When his lungs swell, Jim’s fingers slide, the blade skipping lower and deeper. “Oops,” Jim drones, completely unconcerned. He pulls the knife back. Seb can feel a trickle of blood start to fall down his skin, then Jim’s finger swipes it up, following the trail all the way back to his incision.

The salt of Jim’s skin stings against Seb’s open wound. “Well?” Jim prompts. There’s a slick, wet sound as he sucks his finger into his mouth.

Seb shudders. He can’t help picturing Jim’s tongue, red with the bloom of blood. “You… make someone _disappear…_ And in return, they – they – ”

“They feed my appetites,” Jim supplies calmly, setting the blade back to Seb’s skin. He presses in and down, hard enough that Seb’s skin dents before it splits open. Seb manages to hold everything back but a short, pained grunt from the top of his lungs. He tries to catch it in his teeth before it can escape, and fails. Jim’s knife twists, curving upwards, parallel to Seb’s spine. “Have you ever wanted to kill someone badly enough you’d die for it?”

 _My father,_ Seb thinks, _you, if it meant we’d go together._ “No,” he snarls, bracing himself against the nerve-searing burn of Jim’s knife in his flesh.

“Then you won’t understand.” Jim doesn’t sound like that matters, too much. The blade digs in again. Jim hums to himself, thoughtful; or maybe just disinterested. It’s hard to tell. There’s a white-hot wash of pain flooding Seb’s brain, making the air in his lungs over-hot and crisp like a forest fire. There still doesn’t seem to be much oxygen available in Jim’s basement. Seb’s getting dizzy, his head swollen on his shoulders, dark spots swimming dangerously in the corners of his eyes. “Of course, with something like the hotel chain in the Bahamas,” Jim continues, somewhere far away, the blade in his hand scraping over the bone of Seb’s shoulder. It feels like he’s splitting Seb open entirely. Like Seb is kindling. Like Jim’s going to rend his flesh from his bones –

The knife flicks sideways against bone. There’s a sick, surreal moment where Seb can _feel_ the cuts being pulled open by the weight of his flesh, Jim’s blade sinking deep enough that Seb’s skin and muscle drag away from his body. It’s so beyond pain, so deep and nauseous and _wrong_ that it undercuts even the beckoning scent of Jim’s skin with sheer bodily horror. Seb’s heart stammers into overdrive, thudding against the walls of his chest like it can break its way through. Adrenaline floods his body. He gasps for breath, but he can’t hold it. He shouldn’t have thought about that; Jim taking the flesh off his bones. Once the thought’s in Seb’s head, he can’t get it out. Jim’s insane, after all; utterly, perfectly, _absolutely_ insane. He might be pissed off enough, this time – he might not stop –

He could skin Seb alive, he could _flay the flesh from Seb’s bones,_ shit, he wouldn’t think _twice_ –

Seb writhes for the first time, afraid despite himself, struggling against his chains. They hold, of course. Seb knew they would. But he can’t help trying. Seb throws himself at his restraints in blind panic, his body jerking in abject, animal response. He puts his full weight onto his wrists, wrenches himself forward so hard the tendons in his neck and arms feel like they’ll snap.

“The person who made the contract can usually afford to pay for someone else to volunteer in their place,” Jim is saying. His blade comes free and there’s a spattering noise as Seb’s blood drips from the floor. The pain is overwhelming, of course. Seb recognizes that in a distant way, the same way he recognizes the slow degeneration of his body with age. Killing him and not really happening to him, all at once. The chains cut into his wrists as he struggles, deep as Jim’s blade, deep enough to draw blood. Jim ignores everything with sublime disinterest. “Or act like they volunteered, anyways…” he adds thoughtfully. He sets his knife to the knob of Seb’s neck, over the vulnerable bones of Seb’s spine. Seb throws himself forward again, thrashing. He manages to make his way up from his knees to an awkward half-squat, but the tension it puts on his injured back makes him cringe and drop back to his knees. The chains hold, of course. Jim would never have let there be any doubt of that.

 _He’s going to kill me,_ Seb thinks. He’s certain of it, now. Jim’s blade starts to dig in, over Seb’s vertebrae. _He’s going to cripple me, and then he’s going to kill me._

Horror registers; somewhere deeper than the conscious mind. Somewhere Seb’s been screaming for a long time now, with no hope of stopping.

Jim sighs, his warm breath soft on Seb’s neck. “It’s all so dreadfully _civilized,”_ he says. “Maybe that’s why you don’t understand…” Seb has no response. “I don’t want to be civilized, with you,” Jim admits. He lifts the knife from Seb’s neck and Seb shudders head-to-toe in relief. He can’t quite relax – not yet, maybe not ever – but a few notches of desperate tension slide from his spine.

Jim’s fingertips gently replace the sharp edge of his blade. “Do you remember the cricket bat?” he asks, nostalgically. “Do you remember how _fucking_ me felt afterwards? Do you remembering _wanting,_ still stiff with the bruises, so curious you’d have cut off your nose just for a chance to know what I was?”

It takes Seb a while to realize Jim’s waiting for a response. “No,” he lies, finally; even though that’s _exactly_ how it was.

Jim smiles indulgently. “I do,” he says. “It was endearing, Seb, it really was.” He runs his fingers up Seb’s neck to his hairline. It seems stupid, unreal, that such a light touch can still raise goosebumps on Seb’s skin. His nerves should be dead by now. His body should have given up on touch entirely.

_Never. Not with Jim._

It still feels like fire when Jim touches him; hotter and brighter than pain. “I knew I had to have you,” Jim says quietly. His fingers stroke through Seb’s hair. Seb can feel the dampness of his own sweat against his scalp. On each trembling breath, he moves enough that his hair shakes; enough that he can feel the light brush of Jim’s fingertips over his head. “I knew I wasn’t going to kill you. I’m still not, whatever you’re afraid I’m capable of.”

He steps forward, in front of Seb, and leans down. His hands cup Seb’s face, stained rust-and-cherry with Seb’s blood. Jim’s eyes are black-within-black, pupils blown, his lashes a frame of soot so thick they look like he’s applied mascara. Seb’s breath wheezes over his teeth.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Jim repeats. Maybe Seb looks like he needs the reassurance. “But I can’t take you the way you are now. You really should have killed Tammy, you know. Maybe this wouldn’t have been necessary.” A brief cloud of regret crosses over Jim’s face, and is gone just as quickly. Maybe he’s just disappointed that Seb couldn’t change for him faster. Either way, Jim stands, and steps away into the darkness. Seb’s head sags down between his shoulders.

Jim’s footsteps back to Seb are measured out in orderly clicks like the ticks of a clock, and from that Seb knows he’s bringing something back with him. A stick, of some sort. A cane, maybe. It sounds metallic. Seb tries to breathe right, and encounters some difficulties. Each time he fills his lungs he can feel the gaping wound on his back. _Spreading._ Blood coats him in a thick sticky sheet and when he shifts against the chains for the fifteenth useless time, he can feel it pulling; the liquid sticking tacky and unyielding to his skin.

The footsteps come to a halt in front of Seb, but he refuses to look up. There’s a whistle and snap as Jim swings whatever he’s holding through the air, then flicks it against his own pant leg in irritation. Seb feels a grim sort of pleasure at frustrating Jim. It’s either that or terror again, and Seb doesn’t think he could quite manage the energy to be terrified again so quickly. Besides, his wrists are starting to burn; distracting from the disturbing, bone-deep agony of his back. When he looks down at his hands he can see a thick line of blisters and raw, weeping patches of friction-burned skin under his cuffs. Seb winces. Jim makes a soft, warning sound. Seb ignores him. He rotates his hands, seeking a place to lay the metal that doesn’t sting. It’s difficult. There’s almost no unbroken skin left on Seb’s wrists; he’s laid himself open, fighting against the unforgiving iron. He’d have broken his own bones, if it meant he could get free.

Jim clicks his teeth. “ _Really,_ ” he says, in a tone of disbelieving frustration. A thin, inflexible rod slides under Seb’s chin and tilts his head upwards. It’s a gentle pressure, unthreatening, but Seb’s well aware of the threat that goes behind it.

Jim is frowning, now, his fingers lose around the slim length of pipe in his hand. Seb doesn’t know what he was expecting. Riding crop, maybe. Switch. Something a little more public school, a little more polished. Not… this. It looks out of place in Jim’s pale, delicate fingers; an ugly stretch of undecorated metal, bare and gracelessly utilitarian.

The pipe looks like what it is. Tool. Murder weapon.

Seb swallows, hard.

“Any requests?” Jim asks, solicitously.

“Leave me my teeth,” Seb blurts out, before he can quite stop himself.

Jim smiles sharply. “Noted.”

 _Should have asked for more,_ Seb thinks, but by that point it’s too late. It might have been smarter to give Jim the face; it’s the obvious target, after all. Without it, Jim has to get creative.

He goes for Seb’s arms. At first, Seb thinks he missed whatever he was aiming for; it isn’t a painful spot to hit, after all, the thick muscle of the upper arm and shoulder. Hard as Jim brings the pipe down, solid as the impact is into Seb’s flesh, he can’t do more than bruise. Seb jerks with the impact, swaying into the wood post, splinters driving themselves into his left shoulder as Jim slams the pipe into his right. It’s a dull, aching pain, solid and thick compared to the razor-wire burn of the knife. Seb can take this, he thinks; the ladder of bruising, jarring pain, that starts just below his deltoid and works lower.

Impact sounds echo through the room, chasing the ghosts of Jim’s footsteps. Seb grunts, bracing himself against the pole. It’s not that bad, he thinks – there are certainly worse places that Jim could have chosen to –

The pipe connects square with Seb’s elbow, into and _through,_ and the fragile joint shatters into a hundred useless pieces.

Sebastian screams. Really _screams,_ loud enough that the sound drowns out the thick wet _crunk_ of his bones being pulverized _._ The scream rips out of him from somewhere deep in his stomach, leaving his throat raw as it claws its way out of his mouth. He collapses against the wood post, shuddering. His arm feels like it’s been ripped off; like there’s nothing below his elbow but a screaming mass of flattened nerves, like Moriarty’s set him on fire, like he’s been fucking shot.

Aftershocks of pain jolt through him, burning-hot and ice-cold in turns, and Sebastian hears rather than feels his heels drum against the floor as his body jerks and kicks and spasms. He can’t see. He must have shut his eyes at some point. Someone in the room is still screaming, and Sebastian supposes it must be him. It’s a shrill sound, animal, mindless in its pure agony.

Sebastian becomes dimly aware that Jim is on his knees, Sebastian’s face cupped in both his hands. There must have been a ringing sound, iron on concrete, when he dropped the pipe. Sebastian hadn’t noticed. He bites his lip, the inside of his cheek, anything. Slowly, the screams fade down to whimpers. They’re ugly sounds – soft hitching things Sebastian can’t help making, like sobs.

Jim’s panting too, Seb realizes; breathing hard nearly into Seb’s mouth. It tastes of copper, blood and fear. Jim leans forward and rests his forehead against Sebastian’s. His skin is noticeably warm. Not searing enough to be feverish, but hotter than Sebastian’s. Seb doesn’t know why he notices; but little things seem important now, through the thick haze of pain. The warmth of Jim’s forehead. The sweat that slicks contact between them. The copper taste of Jim’s breath. Sebastian shudders again, muscles jumping with a new wave of pain. Every lungful of air sears Seb’s throat, raw and ragged. He feels like hamburger. His eyes squeeze shut, hot angry tears caught in the corners. Jim moves closer again, until their lips almost brush, and Sebastian lets him. He isn’t going to resist Jim now; he knows better. He isn’t going to offer any more restrictions. He’s learned his lesson.

_Take my teeth, take my eyes, take anything, Jim, anything you want –_

_Just leave me whole still, please, my legs, my hands, Christ, **please** – _

He feels so horribly vulnerable, so _open,_ like he’s been cut apart and stitched only very loosely back together. What had Jim said? _A new animal –_ “Please,” Seb says, out loud, although he’s not sure why. It’s not like Jim’s listened before.

“You’re mine,” Jim replies quietly, hard to hear over the rough sounds of their breathing. “ _Mine._ All of you. Aren’t you?” His fingers dig in to Seb’s cheeks. A warning, maybe.

“Yes,” Seb gasps.

“Again?”

“ _Yes – “_

Jim seals his mouth down over Seb’s. He doesn’t kiss Seb. He fucking _pillages_ him. Jim breaks Seb down and drags away everything worth having, his sharp teeth and his too-clever tongue leaving Seb’s brain nothing but a smoldering wreck of things that were once thoughts. It should be impossible. Seb’s in enough pain that he would have sworn his body was made for nothing but coping, that he’d never want anything other than just _relief_ ever again. A kiss shouldn’t turn him on after _that_ , shouldn’t break him down like it’s a wrecking ball to his frontal lobe.

But Jim Moriarty eats impossible for breakfast.

When he finally pulls back, Seb’s probably bleeding again, his arm probably swelling and putting pressure on the pulverized joint of his elbow, but he can’t seem to tell. He can’t seem to think at all. He sways on his knees, only staying upright because Jim’s hands on his face won’t allow him to fall. Pain is black in his mind, pleasure white. Seb’s got a yin-yang brain. There’s no room for anything else. The chains still binding his wrists clink to themselves, whispering back and forth.

“There,” Jim pronounces, satisfied watching his expression, “That’s my boy. I do like how you look like this, dear. It would almost be worth killing you, just to watch.”

There’s a sickening swing in Seb’s chest that has way too much to do with lust and probably not enough to do with fear. “Jim – “ he starts. He has no idea what he’ll follow it with.

Jim runs his thumb over Sebastian’s lip. “No, no. Don’t bother. You couldn’t form a full sentence right now if I _paid_ you to, don’t insult me by trying.” He leans in, kisses Seb again. Sweet and lingering. Sebastian moans into his mouth, wanting more, always more. If only it didn’t hurt like this, like being eaten alive. “My poor, ruined darling,” Jim sighs. Had he ever killed Tammy? Had Seb ever really cared? “Promise me you’ll never hide your scars again. Promise me, Sebastian.”

“Please,” Seb says again, instead of promising. It’s all he can manage. Jim’s fingers slide down his naked chest, Jim’s clever, _vicious_ fingers, and Seb chokes back a sob. Jim’s hand finds his cock, half hard, fists into a tight ring at his base. It’s like fire. It’s like having his elbow smashed open again, and when Seb’s muscles tense, he can feel the tendons pull on the ruined pulp of his joint, agony spiralling up his arm. He almost pulls back, but then Jim strokes him; this time, Seb cries out. He can’t help it. Blood pulses in his cock, thick and hot and heavy. His chest heaves, and the pain and pleasure crest through Seb in waves, obliterating all conscious thought.

“Promise me,” Jim repeats, from very far away.

“ _Jim,_ ” Seb chokes out, and then, “ _Promise,”_ as if it means anything other than surrender. Pain wipes over him, leaving him blank and hollow. Then pleasure. Pain. It’s too much, _massively_ too much, the worst overstimulation possible. Seb wonders, for a horrifying moment, if he’s going to be sick.

“Good,” Jim replies.

 _Is it?_ Seb thinks, a little drunkenly, wanting to say no, but then – then Jim’s fingers do a – a thing to his – “ _Jim!”_

“That's it,” Jim says, stroking Seb’s cock again, knowing just where to press his fingers to get Seb to hiss and jerk against his chains. It puts unbearable pressure on Seb’s broken elbow. There’s fire under his skin, everywhere, burning him up so quick he thinks he’ll die from it. In his stomach the heat is golden, heavy and round and growing outwards like it’s swelling to burst. His elbow throbs with each pound of his racing heart.

Seb thinks he whites out, then, because suddenly he’s whispering, “I can’t, Jim, I can’t,” over and over into Jim’s shoulder, and he doesn’t remember falling forward. He doesn’t remember when Jim’s fingers carded through his hair. He can’t think of anything but the sheer sick _rush,_ the adrenaline that surges through his brain like an electrical storm.

He might be dying. “I _can’t._ ”

“Shh, shhh,” Jim murmurs, stroking Seb’s hair. “Can’t you?”

“It _hurts,_ ” Seb whimpers, because it does, Christ, it hurts so bad he thinks his mind is tearing in two. And Jim’s hand never stops moving, never stops stroking him; relentless and punishing and so good Seb’s brain goes all the way from dying right through to _bliss,_ without ever missing a beat.

But he still _can’t._ It’s impossible. No one could possibly come like this; not with the smell of their own blood pooling on the air, not with their arm reduced to a swollen, throbbing mash. Underneath Seb’s skin his whole body feels like it’s made of pure light. Pure gold. Jim fists him hard, not fast – Seb doesn’t think he could survive fast – but steady, and so tight Seb’s skin pulls every time Jim’s hand caps over the top of his cock. His breath comes in short noisy pants. He might be whimpering. He feels as if he’s watching himself from high above, watching himself shudder and turn his head blindly into Jim’s neck.

“I can’t,” he mouths brokenly, eyes squeezed shut. “Jim, I –“

“ _Now,”_ Jim commands, and his grip tightens, squeezing the shaft of Sebastian’s cock on the next stroke so hard that it must be painful – it should be painful – it can’t be anything but far too much to bear. The heat and light under Sebastian’s skin goes off all at once, an atomic bomb, a pressure he hadn’t even realized was building until it sparked out from behind his eyelids and became implosion.

_Now, Sebastian._

Sebastian does as he’s told.

He barely feels the hot spurts of come spatter over his skin. Jim catches most of it, anyways. All Seb feels is pain, and pleasure, pure and wrapped so close together he’s not sure he can tell which is which.

++

Seb wakes up in Jim’s bed, or at least, he wakes up in a floating gauzy place stuffed with pillows. There are crisp, white sheets underneath him, and lumpy pillows supporting his head that smell of Jim. It doesn’t seem quite real. Everything is hazy, dreamy, indistinct. When Seb moves he can feel bandages pull at his skin. There’s an IV line in his arm.

“Jim…?”

The mattress creaks and shifts. A stranger bends over Sebastian. “Not… lucid,” he says, sounding like he’s deep underwater. His head turns away, speaking to someone Sebastian can’t see. “10 CCs… to the IV…”

Not lucid? Seb was plenty lucid. He tries to shove himself upwards, and encounters the unfortunate problem of restraints. “Let me up,” he says, or at least tries to. It comes out a slurry mess.

“Nurse!” Someone yells, sounding agitated. Maybe it’s the doctor. Seb twists in time to see a sturdy looking woman in a white dress grabbing a hold of his IV line. She shoves a needle in with brusque efficiency, not even pretending to be friendly. Sebastian opens his mouth to yell, bracing himself the restraints. He doesn’t get very far. Everything goes pillowy and vague.

Seb blinks, several times, trying to stay awake. He nearly manages. Then everything blurs sideways again, into a soft, gauzy soup.

++

Cold fingers card through Sebastian’s hair, brushing it into place. “Sebastian,” Jim says, then softer, “Seb,” like there’s someone else in the room he’s scared he’ll wake. Seb blinks his eyes open and reaches a hand up to his face to knuckle away sleep. He’s not restrained anymore, then.

Jim notices this, with an odd quirk of his lips peculiar only to Jim; a flattened, sideways slide. “I took the handcuffs off,” he drawls, drawing backwards. “Hope you’re not planning on attacking me for it.” His shadowed eyes spark, gleaming despite their darkness. “Although we can always put them back on later…”

Seb shoves himself to a sitting position. They’re in Jim’s bedroom. Jim is perched on the edge of the bed, watching Seb like a specimen for dissection. He’s wearing a soft black v-neck and designer grey jeans, the closest Seb’s seen him to casual when he’s not naked. Seb, on the other hand, _is_ naked; Jim’s cotton sheets soft and warm against the bare skin of his legs. His chest and back are wrapped heavily in bandages. There isn’t pain, from which Sebastian takes that he’s been drugged; although his head feels clear, so maybe he’s just healing. His right arm is splinted, wrapped inside a cast to keep him from moving it.

“How long was I out?” Seb asks, sounding rough.

Jim grins. “Seems like it would be funnier if I didn’t tell you.” Sebastian scowls at Jim, but Jim just leans forward and pets his hand. “No, no. Don’t look so glum. I woke you up for something important, after all.” When Jim touches Seb his body shudders – a Pavlovian response, feeling the ice-cold of his fingers and immediately leaping to two extremes at once. Judging from the wide grin that spreads itself over Jim’s face, he noticed. Sebastian doesn’t bother pulling his fingers back.

There’s no point. “So what did you wake me up for?” he grumbles. Jim, still grinning ear to ear, bounces once on the bed and then to his feet. He pads over to the dresser, hauls out a drawer with a loud squawk, and frowns at the clothing inside.

“You’re going to show me what kind of beastie I made.” Jim shrugs his shoulders; a quick, darting motion, like the jump of an insect. “ _And_ make up for being so _awful_ about killing your girlfriend.”

“Tam isn’t my girlfriend,” Seb says on instinct, then winces. “Wasn’t. Wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“No? Was that Irene Adler’s job?”

A little bit more dangerous, now. Sebastian looks sharply at Jim’s back, but he can’t read anything in it apart from the thin thread of malice that accompanies the words. Sebastian’s injured elbow twinges, like a reminder. Jim’s still sorting through clothes, acting like he’s not interested in Seb’s response. It’s shit and they both know it.

“Adler’s gay,” Sebastian says finally, carefully, “Or as close as.”

“ _Was_ gay,” Jim corrects brightly. He turns and comes back to the bed, carrying clothes that look like they might fit Seb with a bit of fishing line and luck.

Seb frowns. “Past tense?”

“Not yet,” Jim smiles, handing the clothes over, “But you might as well get used to it before you kill her.”

++

It feels odd. Natural. Odd.

Odd to know that the slight man at Seb’s shoulder, hands tucked into the pockets of an expensive suit, is more dangerous than he is. Odd to feel the weird prickle of hairs rising on his spine in anticipation of a kill, after so many years thinking he could be a good man again. Most of all, it’s odd doing this in the middle of London; somehow, even checking that he has a round chambered has Seb wondering why the night is so loud, why there isn’t sand in his boots and stars up above them brighter than neon.

But it’s not all surreal. It’s natural, too. Instinctive. The way he and Jim fall into step together; drifting silently over the concrete like ghosts. The way when he turns or looks or shifts Jim is always there, in perfect balance; knowing how Seb will move on, an understanding that goes deeper than bone. And it’s good – it’s heartwrenchingly good, so good it makes Seb ache. The feel of the gun in his palm, the spice-sweet smell of Jim beside him. The pavement, still wet and smelling of rain, reflecting the store lights from beneath Seb’s feet. Occasionally Seb can hear the splashes of Jim’s footsteps. But he doesn’t need to hear. Doesn’t need to look to see where Jim will be.

It’s natural, after all. What they were made to do. Together, like this, like there’s only one mind moving them both.

“I wish I could take pictures,” Jim sighs mournfully.

“We’ve been over this,” Sebastian responds.

Jim waves a hand in irritation. “Yes, yes. She’s going to be reported missing, there’s bound to be an investigation – You’re aware I do know how to do my _job?_ ” Sebastian grins, and says nothing. Jim pouts theatrically at him for a moment, then twists his neck out to the side to crack it. Sebastian recognizes this as surrender. “Still,” Jim adds wistfully, “I wish we could do some… even privately… even _cell-phone_ pictures…” he sounds disgusted with himself for even suggesting it, and shakes his head quickly to loosen the thought from his brain. “Is this the place?”

Jim has to crane his neck back to look up at the address of Irene’s towering house in Belgravia. Her porch is like an oasis in the darkness. The soft yellow light glowing over the white house sets Jim out nearly black in contrast, and makes it hard to read the suite numbers. Seb doesn’t mind that. Suite numbers aren’t his job. Besides, he wants to watch Jim just a little more. The air’s still damp from the rain and it suits Jim; his coat is picked out with a hundred tiny drops of prismatic moisture. The mist beads on his hair, too, making it look slick and glimmering as his eyes. He’s got a small wrinkle in his brow as he leans forward and presses Irene’s buzzer – one finger, hard enough to turn his nail white – and a spot of dead skin on his nose. His lips are chapped.

 _Would I have cut off my nose to find out who you were?_ Sebastian wonders. Probably not. Christ, he’s in deep, though. Jim is devouring him. He’s not even sure if he wants it to stop. This isn’t seduction, it’s consumption, and Seb –

Jim stretches his neck out to the side with a look of bored dissatisfaction. For some godforsaken reason, it makes Seb smile.

– He’s gone too far to stop.

“ _Hello?”_ a tinny voice says, over the intercom.

Jim leans forward. His eyes slide up to Sebastian as he speaks, lips curved in an obscene, promising smile. “Knock knock.”

“ _Jim.”_ Adler sounds hesitant. She must have cameras set up; there’s no way she can’t see them. Does she suspect what’s coming? “ _Kate’s just run over to the studio with prints of the latest –“_

Jim just raises his eyebrows. Sebastian thinks he might be able to hear Irene swallow in the crackle and hiss of the intercom. He doesn’t blame her. Jim looks impatient, in the worst way for Jim. “Don’t be rude,” he chides.

The door buzzes open.

Sebastian steps in first, holding the door for Jim. Jim steps inside the hall smoothly and runs a hand over his hair, mist coming away wet on his fingers. “To your left,” he tells Sebastian. “Let’s be good guests, now.” There isn’t even a hint of a smile on his face but he’s laughing all the same; Seb can see it in the glitter of his eyes, dark and unfathomably deep.

To Sebastian’s left is a sitting room; white couches, cream walls, a whole bank of windows curtained in sheer white cotton. It drifts with the breeze of Seb’s presence. Outside the street is pitch black, too dark to show anything but streetlamps. It’s cool in the sitting room, but not cold; the black fireplace isn’t burning. In the mirror above it, Seb barely recognizes his own face. He looks leaner, somehow. Narrower. Like he’s focusing himself down to one point.

Seb raises a hand and rubs it over the scars on his cheek.

“You look fine, dear,” Jim quips, breezing by to sit on the couch. He sits straight, one ankle on his knee, arms splayed on the back cushions against the window sill. All black against white, again. This is getting to be a theme with Jim.

“Shut up,” Sebastian tells him, on principle, although he doesn’t mean it. Jim raises an eyebrow. Sebastian grins at him, going for cheeky rather than challenging, and ambles over to lean on the mantle. After a moment, Jim rolls his eyes and shakes his head. _You’re not worth it._ Seb laughs, harsh and sharp. It sounds a bit too loud for the room, like all the fine embroidery and gilt on the walls is mocking him back in the echoes.

That’s Irene Adler for you.

Seb can hear her come down the stairs before she appears in the doorway, the soft padding of her feet over the hardwood. Jim looks up as she enters, saying nothing. His eyes slide down her, creeping, intimate, and Seb knows he’s cataloging her weak points like cracks in her soul.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Adler says, fighting the silence that’s suddenly draped over the room.

Jim turns his head – slow and deliberate, without his eyes moving at all – until he’s looking straight at Sebastian. There’s something very different about him, suddenly. Seb’s reminded of the GQ shoot – Christ, it seems so long ago now. The sense of something unfolding, something behind and beneath Jim that’s too big for his skin. Something dark.

Jim’s waiting for Sebastian to speak. He’s not sure what Jim wants him to say. But Jim inclines his chin, just a hair. _Go ahead._ “We have a score to settle,” Sebastian decides. He looks away from Jim, back to Adler.

She looks horribly vulnerable. There’s a stray hair caught on her cheek that someone should tuck behind her ear, and only a nightgown on. “I wasn’t aware,” she says carefully.

 _She doesn’t have any idea,_ Jim’d said, but Seb’s not altogether sure that’s true. Adler looks like she has an idea. She looks like she knows exactly what Jim is, and what’s coming. It’s there in the wide whites of her eyes, the way her hands are clenched into fists at her side. Seb can see the tendons stand out in her wrists like piano wire, tight and ready to snap. If he concentrates, he can see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes; just a little too quick.

“You took something of mine,” Jim says suddenly. His voice is a deep rumble that rolls around the room like thunder, filling it until there isn’t room left for air. “You put your _hands on him._ That wasn’t very smart, really, it wasn’t. I don’t have a choice, now.” He’s looking at Adler, the tight slash of his mouth venomous as a snake. The shadows on his face make his head look like a skull, black hair plastered flat to his scalp and his eyes sunk deep.

“You were gone – “

Jim raises two fingers. _Go time,_ Seb thinks. He draws the gun from his pocket, aims, and shoots; all in one smooth motion. _Like riding a bike._

Sebastian can trace the bullet’s path near surgically. Entry through the right leg. Vastus lateralis muscle. Patellar tendon. Patella.

In simple English; _knee-capped._

Irene goes down hard. There’s a moment where Sebastian thinks he should feel bad, only he doesn’t; he feels _flawless._ He feels like God again. He takes a shuddering breath, from the pit of his stomach, filling his lungs deep with air that seems much sweeter than normal. There’s a moment of silence before Adler starts to scream; as if the pain is simply so overwhelming that her mind doesn’t want to believe that it’s real. Jim raises from the couch, smooth as smoke, and adjusts his suit. Irene pushes herself up from the floor, almost managing to get to her knees. Knee. One of them is gone now, a hamburger-mess of stringy tendon and sopping, chunky meat that’s already spattering blood on to the floor.

“I was gone,” Jim says calmly, when her screams die away to hitching whimpers, “It didn’t make him less mine. And you knew it. You knew it, and you touched him anyways.”

Irene looks up. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dull and swimming in pain. “Go to hell,” she hisses anyways.

Jim’s lips quirk in a smile despite himself. “I always did like you, Adler,” he sighs, dreamily. “It’s a bit of a shame, really…”

Sebastian doesn’t need to wait for Jim’s gesture. He’s already stepping forward. Close to Irene, the floor’s wet, and movie-theatre sticky. She tries her best to scramble backwards from him, wriggling over the floor with her wreck of a knee trailing out behind her. She doesn’t get far. Sebastian grabs her by the hair and hauls her upwards; that glorious, black mass of curls, silk under his fingers. Jim crosses his arms over his chest, and watches. Seb gets her up to waist level, watching disinterestedly as she gets one leg under her and manages to take some of the weight off her spine. Adler’s panting, ragged little heaving breaths like she’s going to be sick. Her face is pale, deathly pale.

Again: Sebastian should care.

But she’s not Tammy, and well – Seb doesn’t have anything but Jim.

“Take her head off for me,” Jim breathes, sounding rapturous. Adler’s eyes widen. Those terrified whites circle her irises completely, now. She writhes in Sebastian’s grip like a worm on a hook, struggling. She doesn’t bother screaming for help. Too smart for that. If the gunshot doesn’t bring the neighbours, nothing will. Her knee is dripping steadily onto the floor now, a thin trickle like the end of drainpipe. Seb didn’t hit any major arteries; a miracle, really, considering how long it’s been.

He wonders if he’ll be the best again, someday. Probably.

With his spare hand Sebastian tucks the gun back into the waist of his trousers and brings out an assisted-open knife. It’s not big. It’s not particularly sharp, either. Jim’d insisted on that. The air smells of lavender and blood. Adler’s heels scrabble against the floor, scratching the dark wood in long, ugly lines.

“Sebastian,” she gasps, “ _Sebastian._ ” Like she can make him hold off.

But she’s not Jim, now, is she?

++

Six Months Later

Seb accepts a bubbly glass of champagne with a smooth shark’s smile he knows doesn’t extend to his eyes. “Glad you could make it,” he says to Holmes, calm and unconcerned. Holmes frowns at him – trying to make out the meaning of Seb’s bared scars – and doesn’t reply. There’s no meaning, really. Seb just doesn’t wear makeup these days.

“Appreciate the support,” Seb continues, unhurried. He lets his gaze fall on Watson next. Watson’s face is pale and he’s chewing his lip. His eyes dart quickly from Seb, to Holmes, to Jim – up on the second floor – and back to Seb again. He looks like a slow dog being set on a big fox.

“Of course,” John says hesitantly. Nervously.

Seb can’t help wondering what John would look like with Jim wrapped around him from behind; Jim’s pale fingers buried in that sandy hair, baring his throat for Seb’s knife. Probably damn good. Probably fucking _edible,_ come to think of it.

Jim laughs, leaning over the balcony on the second floor like he can read Seb’s thoughts. “Monopolizing Baker Street, dear?” he calls down, loud enough to carry. Seb cranes his neck back to grin upwards. Jim’s got his own champagne glass, and his trademark insane grin spread ear to ear.

“Just being friendly,” Seb tells him.

“Don’t _scare_ the poor things now,” Jim replies, giddy. They’re getting _away_ with it, after all. Everything. They’re ruling the world, and no one has the _foggiest._

Sherlock sniffs. “Your dog doesn’t scare me, Jim.” Jim laughs again, pushes himself off the railing and ambles back amongst the canvases, disappearing into a crowd of guests. Seb’d follow him, but it’s awkward, being up there. Surrounded by his own face. On the second floor the pictures up are all of Sebastian; blood-spattered. Fuck-drunk. And, in one forgettable black-and-white blow-up at the end of the row, sleeping; a small smile curved around his lips and his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. It’s Jim’s favorite, even if it does creep Sebastian the hell out.

When the back of Jim’s suit is no longer visible, Seb shrugs and turns to John and Sherlock. “Feel free to have a look around,” he drawls. Polite. Welcoming. Entirely normal. Definitely not someone who scraped brain out of the kitchen tile this morning.

Sherlock eyes Seb oddly for a second before he nods. “Thank you,” he says, “We will.” John’s shoulders stay hunched nervously up to his ears, a protective instinct that makes Seb want to sneak up behind him and yell “boo” very loudly. Sherlock grips his arm, just above the elbow, and steers him very firmly in the direction of _Not Sebastian_. Seb grins. He’s beginning to like the effect he has on people, especially the fashion-industry sort; they’re a lot more easily scared than the organized crime guys. Seb takes a sip of champagne to wash down his smile – it’s good, of course, there isn’t much Jim doesn’t have excellent taste in – and leans back against a pillar to watch the crowd on the first floor.

The second floor is Sebastian; the first floor is Jim. Not that anyone’s noticed.

It’s Seb’s first work as a photographer, but he thinks he’s starting to get the hang of it. A few people look interested more than bored, but it’s hard to tell under the polite mask everyone wears at gallery openings. The photos are nothing complex, of course. Complex wouldn’t suit Sebastian. It’s just close-ups of hands, macro images, one after the other, like they’re illustrating a story in fragmented shards. Clenched around a 9mm pistol. Wrapping bloodied knuckles. Poised delicately on piano keys. Grabbing the sheets. Fisted in dark hair. Fisted in _blonde_ hair, nails picked down till they bleed. Paused above a cell phone, so tense you can almost feel the irritation. Holding a baseball bat, white-knuckle tight, dirty tape grip smeared and freckled with something that looks black but isn’t, not quite –

Seb likes that one. He remembers. Where had they been? San Francisco? _Dear Jim, fix it for me so I don’t have to pay my debts –_

Seb takes another sip of champagne, letting the bubbles run rough down his throat, and smiles at the crowd. No one’s asked if they’re all the same person. Not yet, anyways. Seb doesn’t blame them. Jim can do a hell of a lot with his hands.

God, it feels good. Getting away with it. Watching these people, millionaires, movie stars, peacocks, floating through the mess of Jim’s mind. Discussing the artistic merit of murder scenes. There’s a photo there in the corner of Jim’s hand on Sebastian’s neck. His mouth had been at Sebastian’s ear, whispering exactly how he wanted their latest _skinned._ And there’s Alfonso Dolce, looking at it with his lips pursed like he’s trying to find a deeper meaning.

Seb takes another sip of champagne, and smiles his shark’s smile. It’s perfect.

++

Jim slides down between Seb’s legs in a cheap hotel in Mexico City, blood still damp in his hair.

“Don’t you look good,” Seb tells him, carding his fingers through the thick black-and-red mess. Jim bites the inside of his thigh as a warning of sorts, but Seb just laughs. Jim’s hands slide up the back of Seb’s legs, over the sensitive skin of his knee; leaving sticky smears of red behind. “If they could see you like this…” Seb continues, breathless, “Christ, I think they’d _make_ you kill them…”

Jim looks up, black eyes glittering. “No one _makes_ me do things, Baby boy,” he replies, “Not if they know what’s good for them.” His tongue traces a wicked line up over Seb’s hip.

“Dunno – “ Seb gasps, “I seem to be doing a good job of making you desperate.” Lucky for Seb, Jim thinks it’s funny. He seals his lips over the top of Seb’s cock, stretched wide, an obscene red _O._ “Jesus,” Seb breathes. His grip in Jim’s hair tightens, dried blood flaking and cracking under his grip.

“Mmm,” Jim agrees, his mouth vibrating around Seb’s cock. His tongue flicks forward, lapping over Seb’s slit, invasive and slick and _devastatingly_ hot.

Seb moans. He shifts himself a little further down the cheap hotel bed, closer to the edge. Jim doesn’t seem to mind. He slides down Sebastian’s cock like he’s never heard of a gag-reflex, all the way down, until Seb can feel himself bump against the back of Jim’s throat. It’s warm and hot and so wet Seb doesn’t think he can feel any friction at all; not until Jim flattens his tongue and _sucks_ his way up, tight enough that every muscle in Sebastian tenses from neck to toes.

“ _Fuck,_ Jim,” Sebastian breathes. Jim looks up – his eyes a hazy blur through his lashes. He mumbles something indistinct, and does it again. And again. _Faster._ Sebastian’s pretty sure his brain shuts off conscious thought then and there. His grip in Jim’s hair goes from tight to vicious pretty fucking quick; but it only makes Jim moan again. Seb’s so deep in Jim’s mouth he can feel the stroke of Jim’s tongue on the base of his shaft. Sebastian pulls him off, just a little, just enough so that the wicked tip of that tongue flicks up under the head of his cock, where the skin’s sensitive enough that pointed contact is almost painful. He hisses, biting his lip. “ _God._ ” Jim huffs out a breath, probably laughter, but Seb couldn’t care less. It feels like melting. It feels like getting your brain sucked out through a straw. Jim can do things with his mouth that shouldn’t be fucking _legal._ Not to mention the added level of –

Sebastian looks down again. Most dangerous man in the world, right there, with hot tears beading in the corners of his eyes from choking on Seb’s cock. Seb untangles a hand from Jim’s hair long enough to thumb one of the tears away, and Jim shuts his eyes and scrapes his teeth across the top of Seb’s shaft as retribution.

“Ow, Jim, shit – “

Jim’s eyes open again and look up at Seb. _Careful, Baby Boy._ He slides off slow, almost to the tip, then back down again: bobbing his head as his tongue spirals around Seb. It’s devastating. The muscles in Sebastian’s stomach and thighs tense, like he’s coiling up. There’s something hot and hollow and desperate low in his stomach.

 _Illegal,_ Sebastian thinks, for the second and probably not last time, _Christ, someone’s got to get on that…_

He gives up, falling back on his elbows on the bed. “Okay,” he pants, “Okay, Jim, shit, _okay._ ” Because of course Jim isn’t doing this for free. There’s something he wants, there always is, and Sebastian isn’t quite stupid enough to deny him. At least not while his mouth is slowly shredding Seb’s brain, and his _goddamn_ tongue is flat, and he’s _fucking_ swallowing, with Seb’s entire _cock in his mouth –_

There’s the click- _snap_ of a lube bottle being thumbed open. Sebastian has just enough time to get used to that: the noise, the noise being a _threat_ , then there’s a slick finger trailing down the underside of his balls. He shivers – he can’t quite help it – and Jim’s finger traces lower, and pushes, and it’s _in him –_

Sebastian makes a strange little mewling noise he’s going to deny afterwards and Jim rewards him with another bob of the head, another neat little flick of his tongue over Seb’s slit. He’s moving faster now – excited – his blood-spattered hair falling over his forehead. His throat’s tensing up. His finger probes up inside Sebastian, sliding slickly in and out. There’s too much lube for real friction. It doesn’t feel bad, or good, just _full._ But Jim’s _mouth –_

“Stop, stop _,_ ” Seb pants, “Fuck, _stop_ that, I’m going to come.”

Jim isn’t quite cruel enough to make him. He sucks his way off Seb’s cock with an obscene _pop_. When Seb shoves himself upward on the bed to look, Jim grins at him; lips spit-slick and flushed. “Too much?” His finger never stops moving inside Sebastian. Looking for Seb’s prostate. Or maybe not, maybe purposefully not, Seb wouldn’t put it past him.

Sebastian just nods.

Jim smiles and licks his lips, slow and theatrical. He presses a lazy kiss to the side of Sebastian’s cock, wet and gleaming with saliva, and Sebastian feels it jolt through him like lightning. “Jim,” he starts, meaning to say _stop_ again.

Jim pushes another finger in. And then, after two thrusts, a third; because, in Jim’s opinion, _fuck_ slow and careful prep. And that, _that_ hurts. That third finger burns like fucking hell, lube or no lube. But Jim’s through messing around now, and as he shoves in he hits Seb’s prostate with the other two, and –

Oh. Fucking _oh._ Christ, it’s like being the epicenter of an earthquake. It’s like connecting jumper cables to your head and your toes and letting yourself fry between them. Sebastian arcs back on the bed, eyes squeezed shut, and Jim does it again – and again – the wet sounds of his fingers fucking Seb open loud in the hotel’s silence.

“ _Jim,_ ” Sebastian gasps, and can’t come up with anything more intelligent to follow that with.

“Sh-sh,” Jim replies, like he had the first time. _You can do this._ Seb moans, letting himself go flat and limp. Not that it helps. It’s like overstimulation, like he’s come twice already. It feels like too much and too _big_ and unbearably empty all at the same time. His skin feels hot, and sticky with sweat, and he knows the sheets under him are becoming a tangled mess as he writhes.

Big, scary, scarred Sebastian. He’d beg, if he thought it’d do him any good.

When Jim’s fingers withdraw Seb whimpers. Jim pulls them out slow, tracing the stretched rim of Sebastian’s hole. Sebastian fucking _quivers,_ like a fucking teenage _virgin,_ and Jim laughs. He does it again, stroking smooth circles, and after what he’s already done it’s _torturous._ Seb wants him. _Now._

“That hungry for it, Baby Boy?” Jim teases. Sebastian flushes, furious and desperate. He hates Jim, god, he _hates_ him, why can’t Jim just fucking _get on it_ –

“Over,” Jim says, in a tone that brooks no disagreement.

Seb flips himself over and shoves his face into the pillows. His cock ends up trapped between the edge of the mattress and his stomach, the cheap hotel bed sheets rough against his over-sensitised skin. Jim doesn’t waste time, after that. He puts one hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck, trails it down over the scars on Seb’s back.

“That’s it,” he says, and Seb can’t tell if he’s mocking or serious. “That’s my good boy.” The blunt head of his cock presses at Sebastian. It’s too big. There’s no way it’ll ever fit. Seb feels a sudden rush of blind panic – because no one’s done this to him before, no one was ever _supposed_ to do this, and it’s going to break him in half –

He tries to get up, and Jim shoves him back down. Better leverage, after all. Seb jerks forward on the bed, and it ruts his cock up against the rough fabric. His stomach is slick with sweat already, and his cock slides in the tight space between them, and Seb can’t help arcing his spine and trying for more.

Which, of course, is when Jim gets a grip on the back of Sebastian’s hair, yanks his head back, and _fucks_ him.

Sebastian’s mind snaps clean in half.

This is Jim, after all; and he doesn’t _do_ slow, he doesn’t _do_ warning, so Sebastian goes from being a virgin to having six inches of cock slammed into him in about .4 seconds flat. He reaches forward - fingers scrabbling on the bedspread - but there’s no moving away. Jim’s got him by the hair, by the hip. He fucks Sebastian brutal right from the start, hard enough to just be on the edge of painful; but it’s _not._ He drives all the air from Seb’s body, and something else as well; because when Jim pulls out and pounds into Seb again, Seb’s _hollow_ on the inside, he’s fucking _gouged out,_ there’s nothing left but this growing, aching hunger. His skin is over-hot and tight, and every time Jim slams home his cock rams into Seb at just the right angle to make electricity play on Seb’s bones. If he knew getting fucked was like this, he’d never have left Jim’s bed the first time. Shoved a dildo up his ass, prepped himself, anything, to feel like _this._

“ _Jim – Jim – “_ someone is pleading, over and over again.

Seb’s cock is aching too, precum smeared on his stomach and the sheets. He can feel the pulse of his heart, throbbing in his veins. Each time Jim grinds him down into the mattress his cock pushes against the sheets, relentless, merciless, unbearable.

“Jim,” Sebastian whimpers again, the muscles in his chest clenching, his whole fucking _body_ clenching. He can’t take this. He needs _more._ He –

“Just from this?” Jim sounds amused. He doesn’t let up – doesn’t change pace, or angle, nothing. Just keeps slamming unerringly into Seb’s prostate, over and over, like he’s going to kill Sebastian through sheer mindless pleasure. “Just from this, Seb, I know you can…”

Fuck. Fuck. He _can._

Jim’s grip in Sebastian’s hair loosens and Seb’s head falls limply to the pillow. Jim’s hips drive into him. His cock ruts between his stomach and the bed, sliding slick with precum. His cheek grinds against the pillow, hair sweat-damp on his forehead. Jim’s cock hit his prostate, there’s flash-fires in his brain, there’s something drumming on every muscle in his body, all at once, and he’s never – never felt anything –

When it breaks over him it’s like falling under a tidal wave. It’s a roar of sound in his ears, a punch to the stomach. He can’t even manage enough air to moan, or cry Jim’s name. Sebastian spends himself in long, shuddering strokes, and he thinks of nothing but pure, white, empty ecstasy.

++

They leave the motel in the morning, heading for Benito Juárez, and Jim mentions shooting fashion again, one day; something different, when they get bored of killing and fucking and consuming each other.

Seb smokes in the cab and grins at the idea. Neither of them says, _we won’t get bored._

They don’t need to.


End file.
